NONE    OTHER 
GODS 


BY 
ROBERT    HUGH    BENSON 

AUTHOR  OF    "THE  CONVENTIONALISTS,"     "THE 
NECROMANCERS,"    "A  WINNOWING,"  ETC. 


ST.  LOUIS,  MO.,  1922 

PUBLISHED  BY  B.  HERDER  BOOK  Co. 
17  SOUTH  BROADWAY 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Joseph  Gummersbach 


-BECKTOLD- 

mNG  AND  BOOK  MFG.  CO. 
ST.  LOUIS.  MO. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS 


203113?) 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 

MY  DEAR  JACK  KIRKBY, 

To  whom  can  I  dedicate  this  book  but  to  you 
who  were,  not  only  the  best  friend  of  the  man  I 
have  written  about,  but  one  without  whom  the  book 
could  not  have  been  written  ?  It  is  to  you  that  I  owe 
practically  all  the  materials  necessary  for  the  work : 
it  was  to  you  that  Frank  left  the  greater  part  of  his 
diary,  such  as  it  was  (and  I  hope  I  have  observed 
your  instructions  properly  as  regards  the  use  I  have 
made  of  it)  ;  it  was  you  who  took  such  trouble  to 
identify  the  places  he  passed  through;  and  it  was 
you,  above  all,  who  gave  me  so  keen  an  impression 
of  Frank  himself,  that  it  seems  to  me  I  must  myself 
have  somehow  known  him  intimately,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  we  never  met. 

I  think  I  should  say  that  it  is  this  sense  of  inti- 
macy, this  extraordinary  interior  accessibility  (so 
to  speak)  of  Frank,  that  made  him  (as  you  and  I 
both  think)  about  the  most  lovable  person  we  have 
ever  known.  They  were  very  extraordinary  changes 
that  passed  over  him,  of  course —  (and  I  suppose 
we  cannot  improve,  even  with  all  our  modern  psy- 
chology, upon  the  old  mystical  names  for  such 
changes  —  Purgation.  Illumination  and  Union)  — 


vi  DEDICATORY  LETTER 

but,  as  theologians  themselves  tell  us,  that  mysteri- 
ous thing  which  Catholics  call  the  Grace  of  God 
does  not  obliterate,  but  rather  emphasizes  and  trans- 
figures  the  natural  characteristics  of  every  man  upon 
whom  it  comes  with  power.  It  was  the  same  ele- 
ment in  Frank,  as  it  seems  to  me  —  the  same  root- 
principle,  at  least  —  that  made  him  do  those  prepos- 
terous things  connected  with  bread  and  butter  and 
a  railway  train,  that  drove  him  from  Cambridge  in 
defiance  of  all  common-sense  and  sweet  reasonable- 
ness; that  held  him  still  to  that  deplorable  and  la- 
mentable journey  with  his  two  traveling  compan- 
ions, and  that  ultimately  led  him  to  his  death.  I 
mean,  it  was  the  same  kind  of  unreasonable  daring 
and  purpose  throughout,  though  it  issued  in  very 
different  kinds  of  actions,  and  was  inspired  by  very 
different  motives. 

Well,  it  is  not  much  good  discussing  Frank  in 
public  like  this.  The  people  who  are  kind  enough 
to  read  his  life  —  or,  rather,  the  six  months  of  it 
with  which  this  book  deals  —  must  form  their  own 
opinion  of  him.  Probably  a  good  many  will  think 
him  a  fool.  I  daresay  he  was;  but  I  think  I  like 
that  kind  of  folly.  Other  people  may  think  him 
simply  obstinate  and  tiresome.  Well,  I  like  ob- 
stinacy of  that  sort,  and  I  do  not  find  him  tire- 
some. Everyone  must  form  their  own  views,  and 
I  have  a  perfect  right  to  form  mine,  which  I  am 


DEDICATORY  LETTER  vii 

glad  to  know  coincide  with  your  own.     After  all, 
you  knew  him  better  than  anyone  else. 

I  went  to  see  Gertie  Trustcott,  as  you  suggested, 
but  I  didn't  get  any  help  from  her.  I  think  she 
is  the  most  suburban  person  I  have  ever  met.  She 
could  tell  me  nothing  whatever  new  about  him; 
she  could  only  corroborate  what  you  yourself 
had  told  me,  and  what  the  diaries  and  other  pa- 
pers contained.  I  did  not  stay  long  with  Miss 
Trustcott. 

And  now,  my  dear  friend,  I  must  ask  you  to  ac- 
cept this  book  from  me,  and  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
Of  course,  I  have  had  to  conjecture  a  great  deal, 
and  to  embroider  even  more ;  but  it  is  no  more  than 
embroidery.  I  have  not  touched  the  fabric  itself 
which  you  put  into  my  hands ;  and  anyone  who  cares 
to  pull  out  the  threads  I  have  inserted  can  do  so 
if  they  will,  without  any  fear  of  the  thing  falling 
to  pieces. 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  many  pleasurable  and 
even  emotional  hours.     The  offering  which  I  pre- 
sent to  you  now  is  the  only  return  I  can  make. 
I  am, 

Ever  yours  sincerely, 

ROBERT  HUGH  BENSON. 

P.S. —  We've  paneled  a  new  room  since  you 
were  last  at  Hare  Street.  Come  and  see  it  soon 


viii  DEDICATORY  LETTER 

and  sleep  in  it     We  want  you  badly.     And  I  want 
to  talk  a 'great  deal  more  about  Frank. 

P.P.S. —  I  hear  that  her  ladyship  has  gone  back  to 
live  with  her  father;  she  tried  the  Dower  House 
in  Westmoreland,  but  seems  to  have  found  it 
lonely.  Is  that  true?  It'll  be  rather  difficult  for 
Dick,  won't  it? 


NONE  OTHER  GODS 

PART  I 
CHAPTER  I 

•    (0 

C4T  THINK   you're   behaving   like   an   absolute 

idiot,"  said  Jack  Kirkby  indignantly. 
Frank  grinned  pleasantly,  and  added  his  left  foot 
to  his  right  one  in  the  broad  window-seat 

These  two  young  men  were  sitting  in  one  of  the 
most  pleasant  places  in  all  the  world  in  which  to  sit 
on  a  summer  evening  —  in  a  ground-floor  room 
looking  out  upon  the  Great  Court  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge.  It  was  in  that  short  space  of 
time,  between  six  and  seven,  during  which  the 
Great  Court  is  largely  deserted.  The  athletes  and 
the  dawdlers  have  not  yet  returned  from  field  and 
river;  and  Fellows  and  other  persons,  young  enough 
to  know  better,  who  think  that  a  summer  evening 
was  created  for  the  reading  of  books,  have  not  yet 
I 


2  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

emerged  from  their  retreats.  A  white-aproned 
cook  or  two  moves  across  the  cobbled  spaces  with 
trays  upon  their  heads;  a  tradesman's  boy  comes 
out  of  the  corner  entrance  from  the  hostel;  a  cat 
or  two  stretches  himself  on  the  grass;  but,  for  the 
rest,  the  court  lies  in  broad  sunshine;  the  shadows 
slope  eastwards,  and  the  fitful  splash  and  trickle 
of  the  fountain  asserts  itself  clearly  above  the  gen- 
tle rumble  of  Trinity  Street. 

Within,  the  room  in  which  these  two  sat  was 
much  like  other  rooms  of  the  same  standing;  only, 
in  this  one  case  the  walls  were  paneled  with  white- 
painted  deal.  Three  doors  led  out  of  it  —  two 
into  a  tiny  bedroom  and  a  tinier  dining-room  re- 
spectively; the  third  on  to  the  passage  leading  to 
the  lecture-rooms.  Frank  found  it  very  convenient, 
since  he  thus  was  enabled,  at  every  hour  of  the 
morning  when  the  lectures  broke  up,  to  have  the 
best  possible  excuse  for  conversing  with  his  friends 
through  the  window. 

The  room  was  furnished  really  well.  Above  the 
mantel-piece,  where  rested  an  array  of  smoking- 
materials  and  a  large  silver  cigarette-box,  hung  an 
ancestral-looking  portrait,  in  a  dull  gilded  frame, 
of  an  aged  man,  with  a  ruff  round  his  neck,  pur- 
chased for  one  guinea;  there  was  a  sofa  and  a  set 
of  chairs  upholstered  in  a  good  damask;  a  black 
piano  by  Broadwood;  a  large  oval  gate-leg  table; 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  3 

a  bureau;  shelves  filled  with  very  indiscriminate 
literature  —  law  books,  novels,  Badminton,  maga- 
zines and  ancient  school  editions  of  the  classics;  a 
mahogany  glass-fronted  bookcase  packed  with 
volumes  of  esthetic  appearance  —  green-backed 
poetry  books  with  white  labels ;  old  leather  tomes, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  specimens  usual  to  a  man 
who  has  once  thought  himself  literary.  Then  there 
were  engravings,  well  framed,  round  the  walls;  a 
black  iron-work  lamp,  fitted  for  electric  light,  hung 
from  the  ceiling;  there  were  a  couple  of  oak  chests, 
curiously  carved.  On  the  stained  floor  lay  three 
or  four  mellow  rugs,  and  the  window-boxes  out- 
side blazed  with  geraniums.  The  debris  of  tea 
rested  on  the  window-seat  nearest  the  outer  door. 

Frank  Guiseley,  too,  lolling  in  the  window-seat 
in  a  white  silk  shirt,  unbuttoned  at  the  throat,  and 
gray  flannel  trousers,  and  one  white  shoe,  was  very 
pleasant  to  look  upon.  His  hair  was  as  black  and 
curly  as  a  Neapolitan's;  he  had  a  smiling,  humor- 
ous mouth,  and  black  eyes  of  an  extraordinary 
twinkling  alertness.  His  clean-shaven  face,  brown 
in  its  proper  complexion  as  well  as  with  healthy 
sunburning  (he  had  played  very  vigorous  lawn-ten- 
nis for  the  last  two  months),  looked  like  a  boy's, 
except  for  the  very  determined  mouth  and  the  short, 
straight  nose.  He  was  a  little  below  middle  height 
—  well-knit  and  active;  and  though,  properly 


4  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

speaking,  he  was  not  exactly  handsome,  he  was 
quite  exceptionally  delightful  to  look  at. 

Jack  Kirkby,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  a  yard  away, 
and  in  the  same  sort  of  costume  —  except  that  he 
wore  both  his  shoes  and  a  Third  Trinity  blazer  — 
was  a  complete  contrast  in  appearance.  The  other 
had  something  of  a  Southern  Europe  look;  Jack 
was  obviously  English  —  wholesome  red  cheeks, 
fair  hair  and  a  small  mustache  resembling  spun 
silk.  He  was,  also,  closely  on  six  feet  in  height. 

He  was  anxious  just  now,  and,  therefore,  looked 
rather  cross,  fingering  the  very  minute  hairs  of  his 
mustache  whenever  he  could  spare  the  time  from 
smoking,  and  looking  determinedly  away  from 
Frank  upon  the  floor.  For  the  last  week  he  had 
talked  over  this  affair,  ever  since  the  amazing  an- 
nouncement; and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
once  more,  in  this  preposterous  scheme,  Frank 
really  meant  what  he  said. 

Frank  had  a  terrible  way  of  meaning  what  he 
said  —  he  reflected  with  dismay.  There  was  the 
affair  of  the  bread  and  butter  three  years  ago,  be- 
fore either  of  them  had  learned  manners.  This 
had  consisted  in  the  fastening  up  in  separate  brown- 
paper  parcels  innumerable  pieces  of  bread  and  but- 
ter, addressing  each  with  the  name  of  the  Reverend 
Junior  Dean  (who  had  annoyed  Frank  in  some 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  5 

way),  and  the  leaving  of  the  parcels  about  in  every 
corner  of  Cambridge,  in  hansom  cabs,  on  seats,  on 
shop-counters  and  on  the  pavements  —  with  the  re- 
sult that  for  the  next  two  or  three  days  the  dean's 
staircase  was  crowded  with  messenger  boys  and 
unemployables,  anxious  to  return  apparently  lost 
property. 

Then  there  had  been  the  matter  of  the  flagging 
of  a  fast  Northern  train  in  the  middle  of  the  fens 
with  a  red  pocket-handkerchief,  to  find  out  if  it 
were  really  true  that  the  train  would  stop,  followed 
by  a  rapid  retreat  on  bicycles  so  soon  as  it  had  been 
ascertained  that  it  was  true;  the  Affair  of  the  Ger- 
man Prince  traveling  incognito,  into  which  the 
Mayor  himself  had  been  drawn;  and  the  Affair  of 
the  Nun  who  smoked  a  short  black  pipe  in  the 
Great  Court  shortly  before  midnight,  before  gath- 
ering up  her  skirts  and  vanishing  on  noiseless  india- 
rubber-shod  feet  round  the  kitchen  quarters  into 
the  gloom  of  Neville's  Court,  as  the  horrified  porter 
descended  from  his  signal-box. 

Now  many  minds  could  have  conceived  these 
things ;  a  smaller  number  of  people  would  have  an- 
nounced their  intention  of  doing  them;  but  there 
were  very  few  persons  who  would  actually  carry 
them  all  out  to  the  very  end ;  in  fact,  Jack  reflected, 
Frank  Guiseley  was  about  the  only  man  of  his  ac- 


6  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

quaintance  who  could  possibly  have  done  them. 
And  he  had  done  them  all  on  his  own  sole  responsi- 
bility. 

He  had  remembered,  too,  during  the  past  week, 
certain  incidents  of  the  same  nature  at  Eton. 
There  was  the  master  who  had  rashly  inquired,  with 
deep  sarcasm,  on  the  fourth  or  fifth  occasion  in  one 
week  when  Frank  had  come  in  a  little  late  for  five- 
o'clock  school,  whether  "  Guiseley  would  not  like  to 
have  tea  before  pursuing  his  studies."  Frank,  with 
a  radiant  smile  of  gratitude,  and  extraordinary 
rapidity,  had  answered  that  he  would  like  it  very 
much  indeed,  and  had  vanished  through  the  still 
half-open  door  before  another  word  could  be  ut- 
tered, returning  with  a  look  of  childlike  innocence 
at  about  five-and-twenty  minutes  to  six. 

"  Please,  sir,"  he  had  said,  "  I  thought  you  said 
I  might  go  ?  " 

"  And  have  you  had  tea  ?  " 
"Why,  certainly,  sir;  at  Webber's." 
Now  all  this  kind  of  thing  was  a  little  disconcert- 
ing to  remember  now.     Truly,  the  things  in  them- 
selves had  been  admirably  conceived  and  faithfully 
executed,  but  they  seemed  to  show  that  Frank  was 
the  kind  of  person  who  really  carried  through  what 
other  people  only  talked  about  —  and  especially  if 
he  announced  beforehand  that  he  intended  to  do  it. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  7 

It  was  a  little  dismaying,  therefore,  for  his  friend 
to  reflect  that  upon  the  arrival  of  the  famous  let- 
ter from  Lord  Talgarth  —  Frank's  father  —  six 
days  previously,  in  which  all  the  well-worn  phrases 
occurred  as  to  "  darkening  doors  "  and  "  roof  " 
and  "  disgrace  to  the  family,"  Frank  had  an- 
nounced that  he  proposed  to  take  his  father  at  his 
word,  sell  up  his  property  and  set  out  like  a  prince 
in  a  fairy-tale  to  make  his  fortune. 

Jack  had  argued  till  he  was  sick  of  it,  and  to  no 
avail.  Frank  had  a  parry  for  every  thrust.  Why 
wouldn't  he  wait  a  bit  until  the  governor  had  had 
time  to  cool  down?  Because  the  governor  must 
learn,  sooner  or  later,  that  words  really  meant 
something,  and  that  he  —  Frank  —  was  not  going 
to  stand  it  for  one  instant. 

Why  wouldn't  he  come  and  stay  at  Barham  till 
further  notice?  They'd  all  be  delighted  to  have 
him.  It  was  only  ten  miles  off  Merefield,  and  per- 
haps—  Because  Frank  was  not  going  to  sponge 
upon  his  friends.  Neither  was  he  going  to  skulk 
about  near  home.  Well,  if  he  was  so  damned  ob- 
stinate, why  didn't  he  go  into  the  City  —  or  even 
to  the  Bar?  Because  (i)  he  hadn't  any  money; 
and  (2)  he  would  infinitely  sooner  go  on  the  tramp 
than  sit  on  a  stool.  Well,  why  didn't  he  enlist,  like 


8  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  gentleman?  Frank  dared  say  he  would  some 
time,  but  he  wanted  to  stand  by  himself  a  bit  first 
and  see  the  world. 

"Let's  see  the  letter  again,"  said  Jack  at  last. 
"Where  is  it?" 

Frank  reflected. 

"  I  think  it's  in  that  tobacco-jar  just  behind  your 
head,"  he  said.  "  No,  it  isn't ;  it's  in  the  pouch  on 
the  floor.  I  know  I  associated  it  somehow  with 
smoking.  And,  by  the  way,  give  me  a  cigarette." 

Jack  tossed  him  his  case,  opened  the  pouch,  took 
out  the  letter,  and  read  it  slowly  through  again. 

"  Merefield  Court, 
"  near  Harrogate. 
"May  28th,  Thursday. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  sir.  When  you  first  told 
me  of  your  intention,  I  warned  you  what  would 
happen  if  you  persisted,  and  I  repeat  it  now. 
Since  you  have  deliberately  chosen,  in  spite  of  all 
that  I  have  said,  to  go  your  own  way,  and  to  be- 
come a  Papist,  I  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  you. 
From  this  moment  you  cease  to  be  my  son.  You 
shall  not,  while  I  live,  darken  my  doors  again,  or 
sleep  under  my  roof.  I  say  nothing  of  what  you 
have  had  from  me  in  the  past  —  your  education 
and  all  the  rest.  And,  since  I  do  not  wish  to  be  un- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  9 

duly  hard  upon  you,  you  can  keep  the  remainder  of 
your  allowance  up  to  July  and  the  furniture  of 
your  rooms.  But,  after  that,  not  one  penny  shall 
you  have  from  me.  You  can  go  to  your  priests 
and  get  them  to  support  you. 

"  I  am  only  thankful  that  your  poor  mother  has 
been  spared  this  blow. 


Jack  made  a  small  murmurous  sound  as  he  fin- 
ished. Frank  chuckled  aloud. 

"Pitches  it  in  all  right,  doesn't  he?"  he  ob- 
served dispassionately. 

"If  it  had  been  my  governor  —  "  began  jack 
slowly. 

"  My  dear  man,  it  isn't  your  governor  ;  it's  mine. 
And  I'm  dashed  if  there's  another  man  in  the  world 
who'd  write  such  a  letter  as  that  nowadays.  It's 
—  it's  too  early-  Victorian.  They'd  hardly  stand  it 
at  the  Adelphi  1  I  could  have  put  it  so  much  better 
myself.  .  .  .  Poor  old  governor  !" 

"  Have  you  answered  it?  " 

"  I  ...  I  forget.  I  know  I  meant  to. 
.  Y  .  No,  I  haven't.  I  remember  now.  And 
I  shan't  till  I'm  just  off." 

"  Well,  I  shall,"  remarked  Jack. 

Frank  turned  a  swift  face  upon  him. 


io  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"If  you  do,"  he  said,  with  sudden  fierce  gravity, 
"  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again.  I  mean  it.  It's 
my  affair,  and  I  shall  run  it  my  own  way." 

"But—" 

"  I  mean  it.  Now !  give  me  your  word  of 
honor — " 

«I_» 

"  Your  word  of  honor,  this  instant,  or  get  out 
of  my  room !  " 

There  was  a  pause.     Then: 

"  All  right,"  said  Jack. 

Then  there  fell  a  silence  once  more. 


(n) 

The  news  began  to  be  rumored  about,  soon 
after  the  auction  that  Frank  held  of  his  effects  a 
couple  of  days  later.  He  carried  out  the  scene  ad- 
mirably, entirely  unassisted,  even  by  Jack. 

First,  there  appeared  suddenly  all  over  Cam- 
bridge, the  evening  before  the  sale,  just  as  the 
crowds  of  undergraduates  and  female  relations  be- 
gan to  circulate  about  after  tea  and  iced  strawber- 
ries, a  quantity  of  sandwich-men,  bearing  the  fol- 
lowing announcement,  back  and  front: 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  il 


TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

THE  HON.  FRANK  GUISELEY 
has  pleasure  in  announcing  that  on 

JUNE  7TH  (Saturday) 
at  half-past  ten  a.m.  precisely 
in  Rooms  i,  Letter  J,  Great  Court,  Trinity  Col- 
lege, he  will  positively  offer  for 

SALE  BY  AUCTION 

The  household  effects,  furniture,  books,  etc.,  of 

the  Hon.  Frank  Guiseley,  including  — 
A  piano  by  Broadvvood  (slightly  out  of  tune) ; 
a  magnificent  suite  of  drawing-room  furniture, 
upholstered  in  damask,  the  sofa  only  slightly 
stained  with  tea;  one  oak  table  and  another; 
a  bed;  a  chest  of  drawers  (imitation  walnut, 
and  not  a  very  good  imitation)  ;  a  mahogany 
glass-fronted  bookcase,  containing  a  set  of 
suggestive-looking  volumes  bound  in  faint  col- 
ors, with  white  labels;  four  oriental  mats;  a 
portrait  of  a  gentleman  (warranted  a  perfectly 
respectable  ancestor)  ;  dining-room  suite  (odd 
chairs)  ;  numerous  engravings  of  places  of  in- 
terest and  noblemen's  seats;  a 
Silver  Cigarette-box  and  fifteen  Cigarettes  in  it 
(Melachrino  and  Mixed  American); 


12  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  cuckoo-clock  (without  cuckoo)  ;  five  walk- 
ing-sticks; numerous  suits  of  clothes  (one  lot 
suitable  for  Charitable  Purposes)  ;  some  books 
—  all  VERY  CURIOUS  indeed  —  comprising  the 
works  of  an  Eminent  Cambridge  Professor, 
and  other  scholastic  luminaries,  as  well  as 
many  other  articles. 

AT  HALF-PAST  TEN  A.M.   PRECISELY 

All   friends,   and   strangers,   cordially   invited. 

No  RESERVE  PRICE. 

It  served  its  purpose  admirably,  for  by  soon 
after  ten  o'clock  quite  a  considerable  crowd  had 
begun  to  assemble;  and  it  was  only  after  a  very 
serious  conversation  with  the  Dean  that  the  sale 
was  allowed  to  proceed.  But  it  proceeded,  with 
the  distinct  understanding  that  a  college  porter  be 
present;  that  no  riotous  behavior  should  be  al- 
lowed; that  the  sale  was  a  genuine  one,  and  that 
Mr.  Guiseley"  would  call  upon  the  Dean  with  fur- 
ther explanations  before  leaving  Cambridge. 

The  scene  itself  was  most  impressive. 

Frank,  in  a  structure  resembling  an  auctioneer's 
box,  erected  on  the  hearth-rug,  presided,  with  ex- 
traordinary gravity,  hammer  in  hand,  robed  in  a 
bachelor's  gown  and  hood.  Beneath  him  the  room 
seethed  with  the  company,  male  and  female,  all  in 
an  excellent  humor,  and  quite  tolerable  prices  were 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  13 

qbtained.  No  public  explanations  were  given  of 
the  need  for  the  sale,  and  Jack,  in  the  deepest  dis- 
may, looked  in  again  that  afternoon,  about  lunch- 
time,  to  find  the  room  completely  stripped,  and 
Frank,  very  cheerful,  still  in  his  hood  and  gown, 
smoking  a  cigarette  in  the  window-seat. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said.  "  And  kindly  ask  me  to 
lunch.  The  last  porter's  just  gone." 

Jack  looked  at  him. 

He  seemed  amazingly  genial  and  natural,  though 
just  a  little  flushed,  and  such  an  air  of  drama  as 
there  was  about  him  was  obviously  deliberate. 

"  Very  well ;  come  to  lunch,"  said  Jack.  "  Where 
are  you  going  to  dine  and  sleep?  " 

"  I'm  dining  in  hall,  and  I'm  sleeping  in  a  ham- 
mock. Go  and  look  at  my  bedroom." 

Jack  went  across  the  bare  floor  and  looked  in. 
A  hammock  was  slung  across  from  a  couple  of 
pegs,  and  there  lay  a  small  carpet-bag  beneath  it. 
A  basin  on  an  upturned  box  and  a  bath  completed 
the  furniture. 

"  You  mad  ass ! "  said  Jack.  "  And  is  that  all 
you  have  left  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I'm  going  to  leave  the  clothes  I've 
got  on  to  you,  and  you  can  fetch  the  hammock 
when  I've  gone." 

"When  do  you  start?" 

"  Mr.  Guiseley  will  have  his  last  interview  and 


14  NONE  -OTHER  GODS 

obtain  his  exeat  from  the  Dean  at  half -past  six  this 
evening.  He  proposes  to  leave  Cambridge  in  the 
early  hours  of  to-morrow  morning." 

"  You  don't  mean  that !  " 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear?" 

Frank  extended  two  flanneled  legs,  ending  in 
solid  boots. 

"  These  —  a  flannel  shirt,  no  tie,  a  cap,  a  gray 
jacket." 

Jack  stood  again  in  silence,  looking  at  him. 

"How  much  money  did  your  sale  make?" 

"  That's  immaterial.  Besides,  I  forget.  The 
important  fact  is  that  when  I've  paid  all  my  bills  I 
shall  have  thirteen  pounds  eleven  shillings  and 
eightpence." 

"What?" 

"  Thirteen  pounds  eleven  shillings  and  eight- 
pence." 

Jack  burst  into  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"  Well,  come  along  to  lunch,"  he  said. 

It  seemed  to  Jack  that  he  moved  in  a  dreary  kind 
of  dream  that  afternoon  as  he  went  about  with 
Frank  from  shop  to  shop,  paying  bills.  Frank's 
trouser-pockets  bulged  and  jingled  a  good  deal  as 
they  started  —  he  had  drawn  all  his  remaining 
money  in  gold  from  the  bank  —  and  they  bulged 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  15 

and  jingled  considerably  less  as  the  two  returned 
to  tea  in  Jesus  Lane.  There,  on  the  table,  he 
spread  out  the  coins.  He  had  bought  some  to- 
bacco, and  two  or  three  other  things  that  afternoon, 
and  the  total  amounted  now  but  to  twelve  pounds 
nineteen  shillings  and  fourpence. 

"  Call  it  thirteen  pounds,"  said  Frank.  "  There's 
many  a  poor  man — " 

"  Don't  be  a  damned  fool !  "  said  Jack. 

"  I'm  being  simply  prudent,"  said  Frank.  "  A 
contented  heart  — " 

Jack  thrust  a  cup  of  tea  and  the  buttered  buns 
before  him. 

These  two  were  as  nearly  brothers  as  possible,  in 
everything  but  blood.  Their  homes  lay  within  ten 
miles  of  one  another.  They  had  gone  to  a  private 
school  together,  to  Eton,  and  to  Trinity.  They 
had  ridden  together  in  the  holidays,  shot,  dawdled, 
bathed,  skated,  and  all  the  rest.  They  were  con- 
siderably more  brothers  to  one  another  than  were 
Frank  and  Archie,  his  actual  elder  brother,  known 
to  the  world  as  Viscount  Merefield.  Jack  did  not 
particularly  approve  of  Archie;  he  thought  him  a 
pompous  ass,  and  occasionally  said  so. 

For  Frank  he  had  quite  an  extraordinary  affec- 
tion, though  he  would  not  have  expressed  it  so, 
even  to  himself,  for  all  the  world,  and  a  very  real 


16  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

admiration  of  a  quite  indefinable  kind.  It  was  im- 
possible to  say  why  he  admired  him.  Frank  did 
nothing  very  well,  but  everything  rather  well;  he 
played  Rugby  football  just  not  well  enough  to 
represent  his  college ;  he  had  been  in  the  Lower 
Boats  at  Eton,  and  the  Lent  Boat  of  his  first  year 
at  Cambridge;  then  he  had  given  up  rowing  and 
played  lawn-tennis  in  the  summer  and  fives  in  the 
Lent  Term  just  well  enough  to  make  a  brisk  and 
interesting  game.  He  was  not  at  all  learned;  he 
had  reached  the  First  Hundred  at  Eton,  and  had 
read  Law  at  Cambridge  —  that  convenient  branch 
of  study  which  for  the  most  part  fills  the  vacuum 
for  intelligent  persons  who  have  no  particular  bent 
and  are  heartily  sick  of  classics;  and  he  had  taken 
a  Third  Class  and  his  degree  a  day  or  two  before. 
He  was  remarkably  averaged,  therefore;  and  yet, 
somehow  or  another,  there  was  that  in  him  which 
compelled  Jack's  admiration.  I  suppose  it  was 
that  which  is  conveniently  labeled  "  character."  Cer- 
tainly, nearly  everybody  who  came  into  contact 
with  him  felt  the  same  in  some  degree. 

His  becoming  a  Catholic  had  been  an  amazing 
shock  to  Jack,  who  had  always  supposed  that 
Frank,  like  himself,  took  the  ordinary  sensible  Eng- 
lish view  of  religion.  To  be  a  professed  unbeliever 
was  bad  form  —  it  was  like  being  a  Little  Eng- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  17 

lander  or  a  Radical;  to  be  pious  was  equally  bad 
form  —  it  resembled  a  violent  devotion  to  the 
Union  Jack.  No;  religion  to  Jack  (and  he  had 
always  hitherto  supposed,  to  Frank)  was  a  depart- 
ment of  life  in  which  one  did  not  express  any  par- 
ticular views:  one  did  not  say  one's  prayers;  one 
attended  chapel  at  the  proper  times;  if  one  was 
musical,  one  occasionally  went  to  King's  on  Sun- 
day afternoon;  in  the  country  one  went  to  church 
on  Sunday  morning  as  one  went  to  the  stables  in 
the  afternoon,  and  that  was  about  all. 

Frank  had  been,  too,  so  extremely  secretive  about 
the  whole  thing.  He  had  marched  into  Jack's 
rooms  in  Jesus  Lane  one  morning  nearly  a  fort- 
night ago. 

44  Come  to  mass  at  the  Catholic  Church,"  he 
said. 

"  Why,  the  — "  began  Jack. 

"  I've  got  to  go.     I'm  a  Catholic." 

"What!" 

"  I  became  one  last  week." 

Jack  had  stared  at  him,  suddenly  convinced  that 
someone  was  mad.  When  he  had  verified  that  it 
was  really  a  fact;  that  Frank  had  placed  himself 
under  instruction  three  months  before,  and  had 
made  his  confession — (his  confession!) — on 
Friday,  and  had  been  conditionally  baptized;  when 


18  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

he  had  certified  himself  of  all  these  things,  and  had 
begun  to  find  coherent  language  once  more,  he  had 
demanded  why  Frank  had  done  this. 

"  Because  it's  the  true  religion,"  said  Frank. 
"  Are  you  coming  to  mass  or  are  you  not  ?  " 

Jack  had  gone  then,  and  had  come  away  more 
bewildered  than  ever  as  to  what  it  was  all  about. 
He  had  attempted  to  make  a  few  inquiries,  but 
Frank  had  waved  his  hands  at  him,  and  repeated 
that  obviously  the  Catholic  religion  was  the  true 
one,  and  that  he  couldn't  be  bothered.  And  now 
here  they  were  at  tea  in  Jesus  Lane  for  the  last 
time. 

Of  course,  there  was  a  little  suppressed  excite- 
ment about  Frank.  He  drank  three  cups  of  tea 
and  took  the  last  (and  the  under)  piece  of  but- 
tered bun  without  apologies,  and  he  talked  a  good 
deal,  rather  fast.  It  seemed  that  he  had  really  no 
particular  plans  as  to  what  he  was  going  to  do  after 
he  had  walked  out  of  Cambridge  with  his  carpet- 
bag early  next  morning.  He  just  meant,  he  said, 
to  go  along  and  see  what  happened.  He  had  had 
a  belt  made,  which  pleased  him  exceedingly,  into 
which  his  money  could  be  put  (it  lay  on  the  table 
between  them  during  tea),  and  he  proposed,  nat- 
urally, to  spend  as  little  of  that  money  as  possible. 
.  .  .  No;  he  would  not  take  one  penny  piece 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  19 

from  Jack;  it  would  be  simply  scandalous  if  he  — 
a  public-school  boy  and  an  University  man  — 
couldn't  keep  body  and  soul  together  by  his  own 
labor.  There  would  be  hay-making  presently,  he 
supposed,  and  fruit-picking,  and  small  jobs  on 
farms.  He  would  just  go  along  and  see  what 
happened.  Besides  there  were  always  casual 
wards,  weren't  there?  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst;  and  he'd  meet  other  men,  he  supposed, 
who'd  put  him  in  the  way  of  things.  Oh !  he'd  get 
on  all  right. 

Would  he  ever  come  to  Barham?  Well,  if  it 
came  in  the  day's  work  'he  would.  Yes ;  certainly 
he'd  be  most  obliged  if  his  letters  might  be  sent 
there,  and  he  could  write  for  them  when  he 
wanted,  or  even  call  for  them,  if,  as  he  said,  it 
came  in  the  day's  work. 

What  was  he  going  to  do  in  the  winter?  He 
hadn't  the  slightest  idea.  He  supposed,  what  other 
people  did  in  the  winter.  Perhaps  he'd  have  got  a 
place  by  then  —  gamekeeper,  perhaps  —  he'd  like 
to  be  a  gamekeeper. 

At  this  Jack,  mentally,  threw  up  the  sponge. 

"  You  really  mean  to  go  on  at  this  rotten  idea  of 
yours?" 

Frank  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"  Why,  of  course.  Good  Lord !  did  you  think  I 
was  bluffing?  " 


20  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  But  ...  but  it's  perfectly  mad.  Why 
on  earth  don't  you  get  a  proper  situation  some- 
where—  land-agent  or  something?  " 

"  My  dear  man,"  said  Frank,  "  if  you  will  have 
it,  it's  because  I  want  to  do  exactly  what  I'm  going 
to  do.  No — I'm  being  perfectly  serious.  I've 
thought  for  ages  that  we're  all  wrong  somehow. 
We're  all  so  beastly  artificial.  I  don't  want  to 
preach,  but  I  want  to  test  things  for  myself.  My 
religion  tells  me  — "  He  broke  off.  "  No ;  this  is 
fooling.  I'm  going  to  do  it  because  I'm  going  to 
do  it.  And  I'm  really  going  to  do  it.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  be  an  amateur  —  like  slumming.  I'm  going 
to  find  out  things  for  myself." 

"  But  on  the  roads  — "  expostulated  Jack. 

"  Exactly.  That's  the  very  point.  Back  to  the 
land." 

Jack  sat  up. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  said.  "  Why,  I  never  thought 
of  it." 

"What?" 

"  It's  your  old  grandmother  coming  out." 

Frank  stared. 

"Grandmother?" 

«Yes  — old  Mrs.  Kelly/' 

Frank  laughed  suddenly  and  loudly. 

"  By  George !  "  he  said,  "  I  daresay  it  is.  Old 
Grandmamma  Kelly!  She  was  a  gipsy  —  so  she 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  21 

was.  I  believe  you've  hit  it,  Jack.  Let's  see :  she 
was  my  grandfather's  second  wife,  wasn't  she?" 

Jack  nodded. 

"  And  he  picked  her  up  off  the  roads  on  his 
own  estate.  Wasn't  she  trespassing,  or  some- 
thing?" 

Jack  nodded  again. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  he  was  a  magistrate  and 
ought  to  have  committed  her.  And  he  married 
her  instead.  She  was  a  girl,  traveling  with  her 
parents." 

Frank  sat  smiling  genially. 

"  That's  it,"  he  said.  "  Then  I'm  bound  to  make 
a  success  of  it." 

And  he  took  another  cigarette. 

Then  one  more  thought  came  to  Jack:  he  had 
determined  already  to  make  use  of  it  if  necessary, 
and  somehow  this  seemed  to  be  the  moment. 

"  And  Jenny  Launton,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose 
you've  thought  of  her?" 

A  curious  look  came  into  Frank's  eyes  —  a  look 
of  great  gravity  and  tenderness  —  and  the  humor 
died  out.  He  said  nothing  for  an  instant.  Then 
he  drew  out  of  his  breast-pocket  a  letter  in  an  en- 
velope, and  tossed  it  gently  over  to  Jack. 

"  I'm  telling  her  in  that,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going 
to  post  it  to-night,  after  I've  seen  the  Dean." 

Jack  glanced  down  at  it. 


22  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Miss  LAUNTON, 

"  The  Rectory, 

"  Merefield,  Yorks." 

ran  the  inscription.  He  turned  it  over;  it  was 
fastened  and  sealed. 

"  I've  told  her  we  must  wait  a  bit,"  said  Frank, 
"  and  that  I'll  write  again  in  a  few  weeks." 

Jack  was  silent. 

"  And  you  think  it's  fair  on  her  ?  "  he  asked  de- 
liberately. 

Frank's  face  broke  up  into  humor. 

"  That's  for  her  to  say,"  he  observed.  "  And, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I'm  not  at  all  afraid." 

"But  a  gamekeeper's  wife!  And  you  a  Catho- 
lic!" 

"  Ah !  you  don't  know  Jenny,"  smiled  Frank. 
"  Jenny  and  I  quite  understand  one  another,  thank 
you  very  much." 

"  But  is  it  quite  fair?  " 

"  Good  Lord!  "  shouted  Frank,  suddenly  roused. 
"Fair!  What  the  devil  does  it  matter?  Don't 
you  know  that  all's  fair  —  under  certain  circum- 
stances ?  I  do  bar  that  rotten  conventionalism. 
We're  all  rotten  —  rotten,  I  tell  you ;  and  I'm  going 
to  start  fresh.  So's  Jenny.  Kindly  don't  talk  of 
what  you  don't  understand." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  23 

He  stood  up,  stretching.  Then  he  threw  the  end 
of  his  cigarette  away. 

"  I  must  go  to  the  Dean,"  he  said.  "  It's  close 
on  the  half-hour." 


(m) 

The  Reverend  James  Mackintosh  was  an  excel- 
lent official  of  his  college,  and  performed  his  duties 
with  care  and  punctilium.  He  rose  about  half- 
past  seven  o'clock  every  morning,  drank  a  cup  of 
tea  and  went  to  chapel.  After  chapel  he  break- 
fasted, on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays  with  two  un- 
dergraduates in  their  first  year,  selected  in  alpha- 
betical order,  seated  at  his  table ;  on  the  other  days 
of  the  week  in  solitude.  At  ten  o'clock  he  lectured, 
usually  on  one  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles,  on  which 
subjects  he  possessed  note-books  filled  with  every 
conceivable  piece  of  information  that  could  be 
gathered  together  —  grammatical,  philological,  to- 
pographical, industrial,  social,  biographical  —  with 
a  few  remarks  on  the  fauna,  flora,  imports,  char- 
acteristics and  geological  features  of  those  coun- 
tries to  which  those  epistles  were  written,  and  in 
whicli  they  were  composed.  These  notes,  guaran- 
teed to  guide  any  student  who  really  mastered  them 
to  success,  and  even  distinction,  in  his  examina- 


24  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

tions,  were  the  result  of  a  lifetime  of  loving  labor, 
and  some  day,  no  doubt,  will  be  issued  in  the  neat 
blue  covers  of  the  "  Cambridge  Bible  for  Schools." 
From  eleven  to  twelve  he  lectured  on  Church  his- 
tory of  the  first  five  centuries  —  after  which  period, 
it  will  be  remembered  by  all  historical  students, 
Church  history  practically  ceased.  At  one  he 
lunched;  from  two  to  four  he  walked  rapidly 
(sometimes  again  in  company  with  a  serious  the- 
ological student),  along  the  course  known  as  the 
Grantchester  Grind,  or  to  Coton  and  back.  At 
four  he  had  tea;  at  five  he  settled  down  to  ad- 
minister discipline  to  the  college,  by  summoning 
and  remonstrating  with  such  undergraduates  as 
had  failed  to  comply  with  the  various  regulations ; 
at  half-past  seven  he  dined  in  hall  —  a  meek  figure, 
clean  shaven  and  spectacled,  seated  between  an  in- 
fidel philosopher  and  a  socialist :  he  drank  a  single 
glass  of  wine  afterwards  in  the  Combination 
Room,  smoked  one  cigarette,  and  retired  again  to 
his  rooms  to  write  letters  to  parents  (if  necessary), 
and  to  run  over  his  notes  for  next  day. 

And  he  did  this,  with  the  usual  mild  variations 
of  a  University  life,  every  weekday,  for  two-thirds 
of  the  year.  Of  the  other  third,  he  spent  part  in 
Switzerland,  dressed  in  a  neat  gray  Nor  folk  suit  with 
knickerbockers,  and  the  rest  with  clerical  friends 
of  the  scholastic  type.  It  was  a.  very  solemn 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  25 

thought  to  him  how  great  were  his  responsibilities, 
and  what  a  privilege  it  was  to  live  in  the  whirl 
and  stir  of  one  of  the  intellectual  centers  of  Eng- 
land! 

Frank  Guiseley  was  to  Mr.  Mackintosh  a  very 
great  puzzle.  He  had  certainly  been  insubordinate 
in  his  first  year  (Mr.  Mackintosh  gravely  sus- 
pected him  of  the  Bread-and-Butter  affair,  which 
had  so  annoyed  his  colleague),  but  he  certainly 
had  been  very  steady  and  even  deferential  ever 
since.  (He  always  took  off  his  hat,  for  example, 
to  Mr.  Mackintosh,  with  great  politeness.)  Cer- 
tainly he  was  not  very  regular  at  chapel,  and  he 
did  not  dine  in  hall  nearly  so  often  as  Mr.  Mackin- 
tosh would  have  wished  (for  was  it  not  part  of 
the  University  idea  that  men  of  all  grades  of  so- 
ciety should  meet  as  equals  under  the  college 
roof?).  But,  then,  he  had  never  been  summoned 
for  any  very  grave  or  disgraceful  breach  of  the  rules, 
and  was  never  insolent  or  offensive  to  any  of  the 
Fellows.  Finally,  he  came  of  a  very  distinguished 
family ;  and  Mr.  Mackintosh  had  the  keenest  re- 
membrance still  of  his  own  single  interview,  three 
years  ago,  with  the  Earl  of  Talgarth. 

Mr.  Mackintosh  wondered,  then,  exactly  what 
he  would  have  to  say  to  Mr.  Guiseley,  and  what 
Mr.  Guiseley  would  have  to  say  to  him.  He 


26  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

thought,  if  the  young  man  were  really  going  down 
for  good,  as  he  had  understood  this  morning,  it  was 
only  his  plain  duty  to  say  a  few  tactful  words  about 
responsibility  and  steadiness.  That  ridiculous  auc- 
tion would  serve  as  his  text. 

Mr.  Mackintosh  paused  an  instant,  as  he  always 
did,  before  saying  "  Come  in !  "  to  the  knock  on 
the  door  (I  think  he  thought  it  helped  to  create  a 
little  impression  of  importance).  Then  he  said  it; 
and  Frank  walked  in. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Guiseley.  .  .  .  Yes ; 
please  sit  down.  I  understood  from  you  this  morn- 
ing that  you  wished  for  your  exeat." 

"  Please,"   said   Frank. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Mackintosh,  drawing  the 
exeat  book  —  resembling  the  butt  of  a  check- 
book —  towards  him.  "  And  you  are  going  down 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank. 

"  Going  home  ?  "  murmured  the  Dean,  inscrib- 
ing Frank's  name  in  his  neat  little  handwriting 

"  No,"  said  Frank. 

"Not?     ...     To  London,  perhaps?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly,"  said  Frank ;  "  at  least,  not 
just  yet." 

Mr.  Mackintosh  blotted  the  book  carefully,  and 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  27 

extracted  the  exeat.  He  pushed  it  gently  towards 
Frank. 

"About  that  auction!"  he  said,  smiling  indul- 
gently ;  "  I  did  want  to  have  a  word  with  you  about 
that.  It  was  very  unusual;  and  I  wondered. 
;  .  .  But  I  am  happy  to  think  that  there  was 
no  disturbance.  .  .  .  But  can  you  tell  me  ex- 
actly why  you  chose  that  form  of  ... 
of  .  .  ." 

"  I  wanted  to  make  as  much  money  as  ever  I 
could,"  said  Frank. 

"Indeed!  ...  .  Yes.  .  .  .  And  .  .  . 
and  you  were  successful?" 

"  I  cleared  all  my  debts,  anyhow,"  said  Frank 
serenely.  "I  thought  that  very  important." 

Mr.  Mackintosh  smiled  again.  Certainly  this 
young  man  was  very  well  behaved  and  deferential. 

"  Well,  that's  satisfactory.  And  you  are  going 
to  read  at  the  Bar  now?  If  you  will  let  me  say  so, 
Mr.  Guiseley,  even  at  this  late  hour,  I  must  say 
that  I  think  that  a  Third  Class  might  have  been 
bettered.  But  no  doubt  your  tutor  has  said  all 
that?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  Well,  then,  a  little  more  application  and  energy 
now  may  perhaps  make  up  for  lost  time.  I  sup- 
pose you  will  go  to  the  Temple  in  October?" 


28  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Frank  looked  at  him  pensively  a  moment. 

"No,  Mr.  Mackintosh,"  he  said  suddenly;  "I'm 
going  on  the  roads.  I  mean  it,  quite  seriously. 
My  father's  disowned  me.  I'm  starting  out  to- 
morrow to  make  my  own  living." 

There  was  dead  silence  for  an  instant.  The 
Dean's  face  was  stricken,  as  though  by  horror. 
Yet  Frank  saw  he  had  not  in  the  least  taken  it  in. 

"  Yes ;  that's  really  so,"  he  said.  "  Please  don't 
argue  with  me  about  it.  I'm  perfectly  deter- 
mined." 

"Your  father  .  .  .  Lord  Talgarth  .  .  . 
the  roads  .  .  .  your  own  living  .  .  .  the 
college  authorities  .  .  .  responsibility ! " 

Words  of  this  sort  burst  from  Mr.  Mackintosh's 
mouth. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  it's  because  I've  become  a  Cath- 
olic! I  expect  you've  heard  that,  sir." 

Mr.  Mackintosh  threw  himself  back  (if  so  fierce 
a  word  may  be  used  of  so  mild  a  manner)  — 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Mr.  Guiseley,  kindly  tell  me  all  about  it.  I 
had  not  heard  one  word  —  not  one  word." 

Frank  made  a  great  effort,  and  told  the  story, 
quite  fairly  and  quite  politely.  He  described  his 
convictions  as  well  as  he  could,  the  various  steps 
he  had  taken,  and  the  climax  of  the  letter  from 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  29 

his  father.  Then  he  braced  himself  to  hear  what 
would  be  said;  or,  rather,  he  retired  within  him- 
self, and,  so  to  speak,  shut  the  door  and  pulled 
down  the  blinds. 

It  was  all  said  exactly  as  he  knew  it  would  be. 
Mr.  Mackintosh  touched  upon  a  loving  father's  im- 
patience, the  son's  youth  and  impetuosity,  the  shock 
to  an  ancient  family,  the  responsibilities  of  mem- 
bership in  that  family,  the  dangers  of  rash  deci- 
sions, and,  finally,  the  obvious  errors  of  the  Church 
of  Rome.  He  began  several  sentences  with  the 
phrase :  "  No  thinking  man  at  the  present  day 

n 

In  fact,  Mr.  Mackintosh  was,  so  soon  as  he  had 
recovered  from  the  first  shock,  extraordinarily  sen- 
sible and  reasonable.  He  said  all  the  proper  things, 
all  the  sensible  and  reasonable  and  common-sense 
things,  and  he  said  them,  not  offensively  or  con- 
temptuously, but  tactfully  and  persuasively.  And 
he  put  into  it  the  whole  of  his  personality,  such  as  it 
was.  He  even  quoted  St.  Paul. 

He  perspired  a  little,  gently,  towards  the  end: 
so  he  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them,  looking, 
still  with  a  smile,  through  kind,  short-sighted  eyes, 
at  this  young  man  who  sat  so  still.  For  Frank 
was  so  quiet  that  the  Dean  thought  him  already 
half  persuaded.  Then  once  more  he  summed 
up,  when  his  glasses  were  fixed  again;  he  ran 


30  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

through  his  arguments  lightly  and  efficiently,  and 
ended  by  a  quiet  little  assumption  that  Frank  was 
going  to  be  reasonable,  to  write  to  his  father  once 
more,  and  to  wait  at  least  a  week.  He  even  called 
him  "my  dear  boy!  " 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  Frank. 

"  Then  you'll  think  it  over  quietly,  my  dear  boy. 
Come  and  talk  to  me  again.  I've  given  you  your 
exeat,  but  you  needn't  use  it.  Come  in  to-morrow 
evening  after  hall." 

Frank  stood  up. 

"  Thanks,  very  much,  Mr.  Mackintosh.  I'll 
I'll  certainly  remember  what  you've  said." 

He  took  up  his  exeat  as  if  mechanically. 

"  Then  you  can  leave  that  for  the  present," 
smiled  the  Dean,  pointing  at  it.  "  I  can  write  you 
another,  you  know." 

Frank  put  it  down  quickly. 

"  Oh,  certainly !  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  good-night,  Mr.  Guiseley.  ...  I 
I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  you 
confided  in  me.  Young  men  are  a  little  unwise 
and  impetuous  sometimes,  you  know.  Good-night 
.  .  .  good-night.  I  shall  expect  you  to-mor- 
row." 

When  Frank  reached  the  court  below  he  stood 
waiting  a  moment.  Then  a  large  smile  broke  out 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  31 

on  his  face,  and  he  hurried  across  to  a  passage 
opposite,  found  a  friend's  door  open,  and  rushed 
in.  The  room  was  empty.  He  flew  across  to  the 
window  and  crouched  down,  peeping  over  the  sill 
at  the  opening  on  the  other  side  of  the  court  lead- 
ing to  Mr.  Mackintosh's  staircase. 

He  was  rewarded  almost  instantly.  Even  as  he 
settled  himself  on  the  window  seat  a  black  figure, 
with  gown  ballooning  behind,  hurried  out  and 
whisked  through  the  archway  leading  towards  the 
street.  He  gave  him  twenty  seconds,  and  then 
ran  out  himself,  and  went  in  pursuit.  Half-way 
up  the  lane  he  sighted  him  once  more,  and,  follow- 
ing cautiously  on  tiptoe,  with  a  handkerchief  up 
to  his  face,  was  in  time  to  behold  Mr.  Mackintosh 
disappear  into  the  little  telegraph  oflke  on  the  left 
of  Trinity  Street. 

"  That  settles  it,  then,"  observed  Frank,  almost 
aloud.  "  Poor  Jack  —  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  able 
to  breakfast  with  him  after  all!" 


(IV) 

It  was  a  little  after  four  o'clock  on  the  following 
morning  that  a  policeman,  pacing  with  slow,  flat 
feet  along  the  little  lane  that  leads  from  Trinity 
Hall  to  Trinity  College,  yawning  as  he  went,  and 


32  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

entirely  unconscious  of  the  divine  morning  air, 
bright  as  wine  and  clear  as  water,  beheld  a  re- 
markable spectacle. 

There  first  appeared,  suddenly  tossed  on  to  the 
spikes  that  top  the  gate  that  guards  the  hostel, 
a  species  of  pad  that  hung  over  on  both  sides  of  the 
formidable  array  of  points.  Upon  this,  more  cau- 
tiously, was  placed  by  invisible  hands  a  very  old 
saddle  without  any  stirrups. 

The  policeman  stepped  back  a  little,  and  flattened 
himself  —  comparatively  speaking  —  against  the 
outer  wall  of  the  hostel  itself.  There  followed  a 
silence. 

Suddenly,  without  any  warning,  a  heavy  body, 
discernible  a  moment  later  as  a  small  carpet-bag, 
filled  to  bursting,  fell  abruptly  on  to  the  pavement; 
and,  again,  a  moment  later,  two  capable-looking 
hands  made  their  appearance,  grasping  with  extreme 
care  the  central  rod  on  which  the  spikes  were  sup- 
posed to  revolve,  on  either  side  of  the  saddle. 

Still  the  policeman  did  not  make  any  sign;  he 
only  sidled  a  step  or  two  nearer  and  stood  waiting. 

When  he  looked  up  again,  a  young  gentleman, 
in  flannel  trousers,  gray  jacket,  boots,  and  an  old 
deerstalker,  was  seated  astride  of  the  saddle,  with 
his  back  to  the  observer.  There  was  a  pause  while 
the  rider  looked  to  this  side  and  that;  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  movement,  he  had  dropped  clear  of 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  33 

the  wall,  and  come  down  on  feet  and  hands  to  the 
pavement. 

"  Good  morning,  officer !  "  said  the  young  gen- 
tleman, rising  and  dusting  his  hands,  "  it's  all  right. 
Like  to  see  my  txeai?  Or  perhaps  half  a 
crown  — " 

(v) 

About  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Jack  Kirkby 
awoke  suddenly  in  his  bedroom  in  Jesus  Lane. 

This  was  very  unusual,  and  he  wondered  what 
it  was  all  about.  He  thought  of  Frank  almost  in- 
stantly, with  a  jerk,  and  after  looking  at  his  watch, 
very  properly  turned  over  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep 
again.  But  the  attempt  was  useless;  there  were 
far  too  many  things  to  think  about ;  and  he  framed 
so  many  speeches  to^be  delivered  with  convincing 
force  at  breakfast  to  his  misguided  friend,  that  by 
seven  o'clock  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
get  up,  go  and  take  Frank  to  bathe,  and  have  break- 
fast with  him  at  half-past  eight  instead  of  nine. 
He  would  have  longer  time,  too,  for  his  speeches. 
He  got  out  of  bed  and  pulled  up  his  blind,  and  the 
sight  of  the  towers  of  Sidney  Sussex  College, 
gilded  with  sunshine,  determined  him  finally. 

When  you  go  to  bathe  before  breakfast  at  Cam- 
bridge you  naturally  put  on  as  few  clothes  as  pos- 
sible and  do  not  —  even  if  you  do  so  at  other  times 


34  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

—  say  your  prayers.  So  Jack  put  on  a  sweater, 
trousers,  socks,  canvas  shoes,  and  a  blazer,  and 
went  immediately  down  the  oilcloth-covered  stairs. 
As  he  undid  the  door  he  noticed  a  white  thing  lying 
beneath  it,  and  took  it  up.  It  was  a  note  addressed 
to  himself  in  Frank's  handwriting;  and  there, 
standing  on  the  steps,  he  read  it  through;  and  his 
heart  turned  suddenly  sick. 

There  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between 
knowing  that  a  catastrophe  is  going  to  happen,  and 
knowing  that  it  has  happened.  Jack  knew  —  at 
least,  with  all  his  reasonable  part  —  that  Frank  was 
going  to  leave  Cambridge  in  the  preposterous  man- 
ner described,  after  breakfast  with  himself;  and  it 
was  partly  because  of  this  very  knowledge  that  he 
had  got  up  earlier  in  order  to  have  an  extra  hour 
with  Frank  before  the  final  severance  came.  Yet 
there  was  something  in  him  —  the  same  thing  that 
had  urged  him  to  rehearse  little  speeches  in  bed 
just  now  —  that  told  him  that  until  it  had  actually 
happened,  it  had  not  happened,  and,  just  conceiv- 
ably, might  not  happen  after  all.  And  he  had 
had  no  idea  how  strong  this  hopeful  strain  had 
been  in  him  —  nor,  for  that  matter,  how  very 
deeply  and  almost  romantically  he  was  attached  to 
Frank  —  until  he  felt  his  throat  hammering  and  his 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  35 

head  becoming  stupid,  as  he  read  the  terse  little 
note  in  the  fresh  morning  air  of  Jesus  Lane. 
It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  DEAR  JACK, 

"  It's  no  good,  and  I'm  off  early !  That  ass 
Mackintosh  went  and  wired  to  my  people  directly 
I  left  him.  I  tracked  him  down.  And  there'll  be 
the  devil  to  pay  unless  I  clear  out.  So  I  can't 
-come  to  breakfast.  Sorry. 

"  Yours, 

"  F.  G. 

"  P.  S. —  By  the  way,  you  might  as  well  go 
round  to  the  little  man  and  try  to  keep  him  quiet. 
Tell  him  it'll  make  a  scandal  for  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  if  he  makes  a  fuss.  That'll  stop  him, 
perhaps.  And  you  might  try  to  rescue  my  saddle 
from  the  porter.  He's  probably  got  it  by  now." 

Three  minutes  later  a  figure  in  a  sweater,  gray 
trousers,  canvas  shoes,  Third  Trinity  blazer  and  no 
cap,  stood,  very  inarticulate  with  breathlessness,  at 
the  door  of  the  Senior  Dean's  rooms,  demanding 
of  a  scandalized  bed-maker  to  see  the  official  in 
question. 

"  'E's  in  his  barth.  sir!"  expostulated  the  old 


36  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Then  he  must  come  out  of  it !  "  panted  Jack. 

" — That  is,  if  'e's  out  o'  bed." 

"  Then  he  can  stop  in  it,  if  he  isn't.  ...  I 
tell  you — " 

Jack  gave  up  arguing.  He  took  the  old  lady 
firmly  by  the  shoulders,  and  placed  her  in  the  door- 
way of  the  audience-room;  then  he  was  up  the  in- 
ner stairs  in  three  strides,  through  the  sitting-room, 
and  was  tapping  at  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  A 
faint  sound  of  splashing  ceased. 

"Who's  there?     Don't  — " 

"  It's  me,  sir  —  Kirkby !  I'm  sorry  to  disturb 
you,  but  — " 

"  Don't  come  in !  "  cried  an  agitated  voice,  with 
a  renewed  sound  of  water,  as  if  someone  had*  hast- 
ily scrambled  out  of  the  bath. 

Jack  cautiously  turned  the  handle  and  opened 
the  door  a  crack.  A  cry  of  dismay  answered  his 
move,  followed  by  a  tremendous  commotion  and 
swishing  of  linen. 

"  I'm  coming  in,  sir,"  said  Jack,  struggling  be- 
tween agitation  and  laughter.  It  was  obvious  from 
the  sounds  that  the  clergyman  had  got  into  bed 
again,  wet,  and  as  God  made  him.  There  was  no  an- 
swer, and  Jack  pushed  the  door  wider  and  went  in. 

It  was  as  he  had  thought.  His  unwilling  host 
had  climbed  back  into  bed  as  hastily  as  possible, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  37 

and  the  bed-clothes,  wildly  disordered,  were  gath- 
ered round  his  person.  A  face,  with  wet  hair, 
looking  very  odd  and  childlike  without  his  glasses, 
regarded  him  with  the  look  of  one  who  sees  sac- 
rilege done.  A  long  flannel  nightgown  lay  on  the 
ground  between  the  steaming  bath  and  the  bed,  and 
a  quantity  of  water  lay  about  on  the  floor,  in  foot- 
prints and  otherwise. 

"  May  I  ask  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  dis- 
graceful — " 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  said  Jack  briefly;  "but  Frank 
Guiseley's  bolted.  I've  just  found  this  note."  It 
did  not  occur  to  him,  as  he  handed  the  note  to  a 
bare  arm,  coyly  protruded  from  the  tangled  bed- 
clothes, that  this  very  officer  of  the  college  was  re- 
ferred to  in  it  as  "  that  ass  "  and  "  the  little  man." 
.  .  .  All  his  attention,  not  occupied  with  Frank, 
was  fixed  on  the  surprising  new  discovery  that 
deans  had  bodies  and  used  real  baths  like  other 
people.  Somehow  that  had  never  occurred  to  him : 
he  had  never  imagined  them  except  in  smooth, 
black  clothes  and  white  linen.  His  discovery 
seemed  to  make  Mr.  Mackintosh  more  human, 
somehow. 

The  Dean  read  the  note  through  as  modestly  as 
possible,  holding  it  very  close  to  his  nose,  as  his 
glasses  were  unattainable,  with  an  arm  of  which 


38  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

not  more  than  the  wrist  appeared.  He  swallowed 
in  his  throat  once  or  twice,  and  seemed  to  taste 
something  with  his  lips,  as  his  manner  was. 

."This  is  terrible!"  said  the  Dean.  "Had  you 
any  idea — " 

"  I  knew  he  was  going  some  time  to-day,"  said 
Jack,  "  and  understood  that  you  knew  too." 

"  But  I  had  no  idea  — " 

"You  did  telegraph,  didn't  you,  sir?" 

"I  certainly  telegraphed.  Yes;  to  Lord  Tal- 
garth.  It  was  my  duty.  But  — " 

"Well;  he  spotted  it.  That's  all.  And  now 
he's  gone.  What's  to  be  done?" 

Mr.  Mackintosh  considered  a  moment  or  two. 
Jack  made  an  impatient  movement. 

"  I  must  telegraph  again,"  said  the  Dean,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  has  exhausted  the  resources  of 
civilization. 

"  But,  good  Lord !  sir  — " 

"  Yes.  I  must  telegraph  again.  As  soon  as  I'm 
dressed.  Or  perhaps  you  would — " 

"  Office  doesn't  open  till  eight.  That's  no  good. 
He'll  be  miles  away  by  then." 

"  It's  the  only  thing"  to  be  done,"  said  the  Dean 
with  sudden  energy.  "  I  forbid  you  to  take  any 
other  steps,  Mr.  Kirkby.  I  am  responsible — " 

"But—" 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  39 

"  We  must  not  make  a  scandal.  .  .  .  What 
else  did  you  propose  ?  " 

"Why  —  fifty  things.  Motor-cars;  police — " 
"  Certainly  not.  We  must  make  no  scandal  as 
he  ...  as  he  very  properly  says."  (The 
Dean  swallowed  in  his  throat  again.  Jack  thought 
afterwards  that  it  must  have  been  the  memory  of 
certain  other  phrases  in  the  letter.)  "  So  if  you  will 
be  good  enough  to  leave  me  instantly,  Mr.  Kirkby, 
I  will  finish  my  dressing  and  deal  with  the  matter." 

Jack  wheeled  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  a  miserable  breakfast  to  which  he  sat 
down  half  an  hour  later  —  still  in  flannels,  and 
without  his  bath.  Frank's  place  was  laid,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  instructions  he  had  given  his 
landlady  last  night,  and  he  had  not  the  heart  to 
push  the  things  aside.  There  were  soles  for  two, 
and  four  boiled  eggs;  there  was  coffee  and  mar- 
malade and  toast  and  rolls  and  fruit ;  and  the  com- 
fortable appearance  of  the  table  simply  mocked 
him. 

He  had  had  very  confused  ideas  just  now  as  to 
what  was  possible  with  regard  to  the  pursuit  of 
Frank ;  a  general  vision  of  twenty  motor-cars,  each 
with  a  keen-eyed  chauffeur  and  an  observant  po- 


40  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

liceman,  was  all  that  had  presented  itself  to  his 
imagination;  but  he  had  begun  to  realize  by  now 
that  you  cannot,  after  all,  abduct  a  young  man  who 
has  committed  no  crime,  and  carry  him  back  un- 
willingly, even  to  Cambridge !  Neither  the  Dean 
of  Trinity  nor  a  father  possesses  quite  unlimited 
power  over  the  freedom  of  a  pupil  and  a  son. 
And,  after  all,  Frank  had  only  taken  his  father  at 
his  word! 

These  reflections,  however,  did  not  improve  the 
situation.  He  felt  quite  certain,  in  theory,  that 
something  more  could  be  done  than  feebly  to  send 
another  telegram  or  two;  the  only  difficulty  was 
to  identify  that  something.  He  had  vague  ideas, 
himself,  of  hiring  a  motor-car  by  the  day,  and 
proceeding  to  scour  the  country  round  Cambridge. 
But  even  this  did  not  stand  scrutiny.  If  he  had 
failed  to  persuade  Frank  to  remain  in  Cambridge, 
it  was  improbable  that  he  could  succeed  in  per- 
suading him  to  return  —  even  if  he  found  him. 
About  eight  important  roads  run  out  of  Cambridge, 
and  he  had  not  a  glimmer  of  an  idea  as  to  which  of 
these  he  had  taken.  It  was  possible,  even,  that  he 
had  not  taken  any  of  them,  and  was  walking  across 
country.  That  would  be  quite  characteristic  of 
Frank. 

He  finished  breakfast  dismally,  and  blew  through 


NONE  OTHKR  GODS  41 

an  empty  pipe,  staring  lackadaisically  out  of  the 
window  at  the  wall  of  Sidney  Sussex  for  two  or 
three  minutes  before  lighting  up.  Cambridge 
seemed  an  extraordinary  flat  and  stupid  place  now 
that  Frank  was  no  longer  within  it.  Really  there 
was  nothing  particular  to  do.  It  had  become  al- 
most a  regular  engagement  for  him  to  step  round  to 
the  Great  Court  about  eleven,  and  see  what  was  to 
be  done.  Sometimes  Frank  wanted  lawn-tennis  — 
sometimes  a  canoe  on  the  Backs  —  at  any  rate, 
they  would  either  lunch  or  dine  together.  And  if 
they  didn't  —  well,  at  any  rate,  Frank  was  there ! 

He  tried  to  picture  to  himself  what  Frank  was 
doing;  he  had  visions  of  a  sunlit  road  running 
across  a  fen,  with  a  figure  tramping  up  it;  of  a 
little  wayside  inn,  and  Frank  drinking  beer  in  the 
shade.  But  it  seemed  an  amazing  waste  of  com- 
pany that  the  figure  should  always  be  alone.  Why 
hadn't  he  proposed  to  go  with  him  himself?  He 
didn't  know ;  except  that  it  certainly  would  not  have 
been  accepted.  And  yet  they  could  have  had  quite 
a  pleasant  time  for  a  couple  of  months;  and,  after 
a  couple  of  months,  surely  Frank  would  have  had 
enough  of  it ! 

But,  again  —  would  he  ?  .  .  .  Frank  seemed 
really  in  earnest  about  making  his  living  perma- 
nently; and  when  Frank  said  that  he  was  going 
to  do  a  thing,  he  usually  did  it !  And  Jack  Kirkby 

4 


42  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

did  not  see  himself  leaving  his  own  mother  and 
sisters  indefinitely  until  Frank  had  learned  not  to  be 
a  fool. 

He  lit  his  pipe  at  last;  and  then  remembered  the 
commission  with  regard  to  the  saddle  —  whatever 
that  might  mean.  He  would  stroll  round  presently 
and  talk  to  the  porter  about  it  ...  Yes,  he 
would  go  at  once;  and  he  would  just  look  in  at 
Frank's  rooms  again.  There  was  the  hammock  to 
fetch,  too. 

But  it  was  a  dreary  little  visit.  He  went  round 
as  he  was,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  trying  to 
whistle  between  his  teeth  and  smoke  simultane- 
ously ;  and  he  had  to  hold  his  pipe  in  his  hand  out 
of  respect  for  rules,  as  he  conversed  with  the  stately 
Mr.  Hoppett  in  Trinity  gateway.  Mr.  Hoppett 
knew  nothing  about  any  saddle  —  at  least,  not  for 
public  communication  —  but  his  air  of  deep  and 
diplomatic  suspiciousness  belied  his  words. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Jack  pleasantly,  "  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  elopement.  The  Dean 
knows  all  about  it." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hop- 
pett judicially. 

"Then  you've  not  got  the  saddle?" 

"  I  have  not,  sir." 

Frank's  outer  door  was  open  as  Jack  came  to  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  43 

familiar  staircase,  and  his  heart  leaped  in  spite  of 
himself,  as  he  peered  in  and  heard  footsteps  in  the 
bedroom  beyond.  But  it  was  the  bed-maker  with 
a  mop,  and  a  disapproving  countenance,  who  looked 
out  presently. 

"  He's  gone,  Mrs.  Jillings,"  said  Jack. 

Mrs.  Jillings  sniffed.  She  had  heard  tales  of  the 
auction  and  thought  it  a  very  improper  thing  for  so 
pleasant  a  young  gentleman  to  do. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"There  isn't  a  saddle  here,  is  there?" 

"Saddle,  sir?  No,  sir.  What  should  there  be 
a  saddle  here  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Jack  vaguely.  "  I've  come  to 
fetch  away  the  hammock,  anyhow." 

Certainly  the  rooms  looked  desolate.  Even  the 
carpets  were  gone,  and  the  unstained  boards  in  the 
middle  seemed  suggestive  of  peculiar  dreariness. 
It  was  really  very  difficult  to  believe  that  these  were 
the  rooms  where  he  and  Frank  had  had  such  pleas- 
ant times  —  little  friendly  bridge-parties,  and  din- 
ners, and  absurd  theatricals,  in  which  Frank  had 
sustained,  with  extreme  rapidity,  with  the  aid  of 
hardly  any  properties  except  a  rouge-pot,  a  burnt 
cork  and  three  or  four  wisps  of  hair  of  various 
shades,  the  part  of  almost  any  eminent  authority  in 
the  University  of  Cambridge  that  you  cared  to 
name.  There  were  long  histories,  invented  by 


44  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Frank  himself,  of  the  darker  sides  of  the  lives  of 
the  more  respectable  members  of  the  Senate  —  his- 
tories that  grew,  like  legends,  term  by  term  —  in 
which  the  most  desperate  deeds  were  done.  The 
Master  of  Trinity,  for  example,  in  these  Sagas, 
would  pass  through  extraordinary  love  adventures, 
or  discover  the  North  Pole,  or  give  a  lecture,  with 
practical  examples,  of  the  art  of  flying;  the  Provost 
of  King's  would  conspire  with  the  President  of 
Queen's  College,  to  murder  the  Vice-Chancellor  and 
usurp  his  dignities.  And  these  histories  would  be 
enacted  with  astonishing  realism,  chiefly  by  Frank 
himself,  with  the  help  of  a  zealous  friend  or  two 
who  were  content  to  obey. 

And  these  were  all  over  now;  and  that  was  the 
very  door  through  which  the  Vice-Chancellor  was 
accustomed  to  escape  from  his  assassins! 

Jack  sighed  again;  passed  through,  picked  up  the 
parcel  of  clothes  that  lay  in  the  window-seat,  un- 
hitched the  hammock  in  which  Frank  had  slept  last 
night  (he  noticed  the  ends  of  three  cigarettes  placed 
on  the  cover  of  a  convenient  biscuit-tin),  and  went 
off  resembling  a  retiarius.  Mrs.  Jillings  sniffed 
again  as  she  looked  after  him  up  the  court.  She 
didn't  understand  those  young  gentlemen  at  all; 
and  frequently  said  so. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  45 

(VI) 

At  half-past  six  o'clock  that  morning  —  about  the 
time  that  Jack  awoke  in  Cambridge  —  John  Harris, 
laborer,  emerged,  very  sleepy  and  frowsy  —  for  he 
had  sat  up  late  last  night  at  the  "  Spotted  Dog  "- 
from  the  door  of  a  small  cottage  on  the  Ely  road, 
in  the  middle  of  Grunty  Fen.  He  looked  this  way 
and  that,  wondering  whether  it  were  as  late  as  his 
kitchen-clock  informed  him,  and  observing  the  sun, 
that  hung  now  lamentably  high  up  in  that  enormous 
dome  of  summer  sky  that  sat  on  the  fenland  like  a 
dish-cover  on  a  dish.  And  as  he  turned  south- 
wards he  became  aware  of  a  young  gentleman  car- 
rying a  carpet-bag  in  one  hand,  and  a  gray  jacket 
over  his  other  arm,  coming  up  to  him,  not  twenty 
yards  away.  As  he  came  nearer,  Mr.  Harris  no- 
ticed that  his  face  was  badly  bruised  as  by  a  blow. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 
"  Hot  work." 

John  Harris  made  some  observation. 

"  I  want  some  work  to  do,"  said  the  young  gen- 
tleman, disregarding  the  observation.  "  I'm  will- 
ing and  capable.  Do  you  know  of  any?  I  mean, 
work  that  I  shall  be  paid  for.  Or  perhaps  some 
breakfast  would  do  as  a  beginning." 

John  Harris  regarded  the  young  gentleman  in 
silence. 


CHAPTER  II 

(0 

"JV/TEREFIELD  COURT,  as  every  tourist  knows 
may  be  viewed  from  ten  to  five  on  Tuesdays 
and  Thursdays,  when  the  family  are  not  in  resi- 
dence, and  on  Tuesdays  only,  from  two  to  four, 
when  they  are.  It  is  unnecessary,  therefore,  to  de- 
scribe it  very  closely. 

It  stands  very  nearly  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  pro- 
tected by  woods  from  the  north  winds  of  York- 
shire ;  and  its  towers  and  pinnacles  can  be  seen  from 
ten  miles  away  down  the  valley.  It  is  built,  archi- 
tecturally considered,  in  the  form  of  an  irregular 
triangular  court  —  quite  unique  —  with  the  old 
barbican  at  the  lower  end;  the  chapel  wing  directly 
opposite;  the  ruins  of  the  old  castle  on  the  left,  keep 
and  all,  and  the  new  house  that  is  actually  lived  in 
on  the  right.  It  is  of  every  conceivable  date  (the 
housekeeper  will  supply  details)  from  the  British 
mound  on  which  the  keep  stands,  to  the  Georgian 
smoking-room  built  by  the  grandfather  of  the  pres- 
ent earl;  but  the  main  body  of  the  house,  with 
which  we  are  principally  concerned  —  the  long  gray 
46 


NONIi  OT11KK  liODS  47 

pile  facing  south  down  to  the  lake,  and  northwards 
into  the  court  —  is  Jacobean  down  to  the  smallest 
detail,  and  extremely  good  at  that.  It  was  on  the 
end  of  this  that  the  thirteenth  earl  the  fifteenth 
baron  and  the  fourteenth  viscount  (one  man,  not 
three)  thought  it  proper  to  build  on  a  Palladian 
kind  of  smoking-room  of  red  sandstone,  brought 
at  enormous  cost  from  half  across  England.  For- 
tunately, however,  ivy  has  since  covered  the  greater 
part  of  its  exterior. 

It  was  in  this  room  —  also  used  as  a  billiard- 
room  —  that  Archie  Guiseley  ( Viscount  Merefield ) , 
and  Dick  Guiseley,  his  first  cousin,  first  heard  the 
news  of  Frank's  intentions. 

They  were  both  dressed  for  dinner,  and  were 
knocking  the  balls  about  for  ten  minutes,  waiting 
for  the  gong,  and  they  were  talking  in  that  inco- 
herent way  characteristic  of  billiard-players. 

"  The  governor's  not  very  well  again,"  observed 
Archie,  "  and  the  doctor  won't  let  him  go  up  to 
town.  That's  why  we're  here." 

Dick  missed  a  difficult  cannon  (he  had  only  ar- 
rived from  town  himself  by  the  6.17),  and  began  to 
chalk  his  cue  very  carefully. 

"  There's  nothing  whatever  to  do,"  continued 
Archie,  "  so  I  warn  you." 

Dick  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  and  closed  it 
again,  pursing  it  up  precisely  as  once  more  he  ad- 


48  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

dressed  himself  to  the  balls,  and  this  time  brought 
off  a  really  brilliant  stroke. 

"  And  he's  in  a  terrible  way  about  Frank,"  con- 
tinued the  other.  "  You've  heard  all  about  that?  " 

Dick  nodded. 

"  And  he  swears  he  won't  have  him  home  again, 
and  that  he  can  go  to  the  devil." 

Dick  arched  his  eyebrows  interrogatively. 

"Of  course,  he  doesn't  mean  it.  ...  But 
the  gout,  you  know,  and  all  that.  ...  I  think 
Frank  had  better  keep  out  of  the  way,  though,  for 
a  bit.  Oh!  by  the  way,  the  Rector  and  Jenny  are 
coming  to  dinner." 

"What  does  Jenny  say  to  it  all?"  asked  Dick 
gently. 

"Oh!  Jenny  laughs." 

These  two  young  men  —  for  Archie  was  only 
twenty-five,  and  Dick  a  year  or  two  older  —  were 
quite  remarkably  like  one  another  in  manner  and 
general  bearing.  Each,  though  their  faces  were  en- 
tirely different,  wore  that  same  particular  form  of 
mask  that  is  fashionable  just  now.  Each  had  a 
look  in  his  eyes  as  if  the  blinds  were  down  —  rather 
insolent  and  yet  rather  pleasant.  Each  moved  in 
the  same  kind  of  way,  slow  and  deliberate;  each 
spoke  quietly  on  rather  a  low  note,  and  used  as  few 
words  as  possible.  Each,  just  now,  wore  a  short 
braided  dinner-jacket  of  precisely  the  same  cut. 


MONK  OTHER  GODS  49 

For  the  rest,  they  were  quite  unlike.  Archie  was 
clean-shaven,  of  a  medium  sort  of  complexion,  with 
a  big  chin  and  rather  loosely  built;  Dick  wore  a 
small,  pointed  brown  beard,  and  was  neat  and  alert. 
Neither  of  them  did  anything  particular  in  the 
world.  Archie  was  more  or  less  tied  to  his  father, 
except  in  the  autumn  —  for  Archie  drew  the  line 
at  Homburg,  and  went  about  for  short  visits,  re- 
turning continually  to  look  after  the  estate;  Dick 
lived  in  a  flat  in  town  on  six  hundred  a  year,  al- 
lowed him  by  his  mother,  and  was  supposed  to  be  a 
sort  of  solicitor.  They  saw  a  good  deal  of  one 
another,  off  and  on,  and  got  on  together  rather  bet- 
ter than  most  brothers;  certainly  better  than  did 
Archie  and  Frank.  It  was  thought  a  pity  by  a 
good  many  people  that  they  were  only  cousins. 

Then,  as  they  gossiped  gently,  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  a  girl  came  in. 

She  was  a  very  striking  girl  indeed,  and  her 
beauty  was  increased  just  now  by  obvious  excite- 
ment held  well  in  check.  She  was  tall  and  very 
fair,  and  carried  herself  superbly,  looking  taller 
than  she  really  was.  Her  eyes,  particularly  bright 
just  now,  were  of  a  vivid  blue,  wide-open  and  well 
set  in  her  face ;  her  mouth  was  strong  and  sensible ; 
and  there  was  a  glorious  air  of  breeziness  and 
health  about  her  altogether.  She  was  in  evening 


5o  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

dress,  and  wore  a  light  cloak  over  her  white  shoul- 
ders. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt,"  she  said  — "  Oh !  good 
evening,  Mr.  Dick !  —  but  there's  something  wrong. 
Clarkson  ran  out  to  tell  us  that  Lord  Talgarth  — 
it's  a  telegram  or  something.  Father  sent  me  to 
tell  you." 

Archie  looked  at  her  a  second ;  then  he  was  gone, 
swiftly,  but  not  hurriedly.  The  girl  turned  to  Dick. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  something  about  Frank,"  she 
said.  "  I  heard  Clarkson  mention  his  name  to 
father.  Is  there  any  more  news  ?  " 

Dick  laid  down  his  cue  across  the  table. 

"  I  only  came  an  hour  ago,"  he  said.  "  Archie 
was  telling  me  just  now." 

Jenny  went  across  to  the  deep  chair  on  the 
hearth,  threw  off  her  cloak  and  sat  down. 

"  Lord  Talgarth's  —  well  —  if  he  was  my  father 
I  should  say  he  was  in  a  passion.  I  heard  his 
voice."  She  smiled  a  little. 

Dick  leaned  against  the  table,  looking  at  her. 

"Poor  Frank!"  he  said. 

She  smiled  again,  more  freely. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  poor,  dear  Frank !  He's  always 
in  hot  water,  isn't  he?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  serious  this  time,"  observed  Dick. 
"  What  did  he  want  to  become  a  Catholic  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Frank's  always  unexpected !  " 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  51 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  this  happens  to  be  just  the 
one  very  thing — " 

She  looked  at  him  humorously. 

"  Do  you  know,  I'd  no  notion  that  Lord  Talgarth 
was  so  deeply  religious  until  Frank  became  a  Cath- 
olic." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Dick.  "  But  it  is  just  his 
one  obsession.  Frank  must  have  known  that." 

"  And  I've  not  the  slightest  doubt,"  said  Jenny, 
"  that  that  was  an  additional  reason  for  his  doing 
it." 

"Well,  what'll  happen?" 

She  jerked  her  head  a  little. 

"Oh!  it'll  pass  off.  You'll  see.  Frank'll  find 
out,  and  then  we  shall  all  be  happy  ever  after- 
wards." 

"  But  meantime?" 

"  Oh !  Frank'll  go  and  stay  with  friends  a  month 
or  two.  I  daresay  he'll  come  to  the  Kirkbys',  and 
I  can  go  and  see  him." 

"  Suppose  he  does  something  violent  ?  He's 
quite  capable  of  it." 

"Oh!  I  shall  talk  to  him.  It'll  be  all  right. 
I'm  very  sensible  indeed,  you  know.  All  my 
friends  tell  me  that." 

Dick  was  silent. 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Think  what?" 


52  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  That  I'm  very  sensible." 

Dick  made  a  little  movement  with  his  head. 

"  Oh !  I  suppose  so.  Yes,  I  daresay.  .  .  . 
And  suppose  my  uncle  cuts  him  off  with  a  shilling? 
He's  quite  capable  of  it.  He's  a  very  heavy  father, 
you  know." 

"  He  won't.     I  shall  talk  to  him  too." 

"Yes;  but  suppose  he  does?" 

She  threw  him  a  swift  glance. 

"  Frank'll  put  the  shilling  on  his  watch-chain, 
after  it's  been  shown  with  all  the  other  wedding- 
presents.  What  are  you  going  to  give  me,  Mr. 
Dick?" 

"  I  shall  design  a  piece  of  emblematic  jewelry," 
said  Dick  very  gravely.  "  When's  the  wedding  to 
be?" 

"Well,  we  hadn't  settled.  Lord  Talgarth 
wouldn't  make  up  his  mind.  I  suppose  next  sum- 
mer some  time." 

"  Miss  Jenny  — " 

"Yes?" 

"  Tell  me  —  quite  seriously  —  what  you'd  do  if 
there  was  a  real  row  —  a  permanent  one,  I  mean  — 
between  Frank  and  my  uncle  ?  " 

"Dear  Mr.  Dick  —  don't  talk  so  absurdly.  I 
tell  you  there's  not  going  to  be  a  row.  I'm  going 
to  see  to  that  myself." 

"  But  suppose  there  was?  " 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  53 

Jenny  stood  up  abruptly. 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  a  very  sensible  person,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  imagine  absurdities.  What  do  you 
want  me  to  say?  Do  you  want  me  to  strike  an 
attitude  and  talk  about  love  in  a  cottage?  " 

"  Well,  that  would  be  one  answer." 

"Very  well,  then.  That'll  do,  won't  it?  You 
can  take  it  as  said.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  see 
what's  happening." 

But  as  she  went  to  the  door  there  came  footsteps 
and  voices  outside;  and  the  next  moment  the  door 
opened  suddenly,  and  Lord  Talgarth,  followed  by 
his  son  and  the  Rector,  burst  into  the  room. 


(n) 

I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  say  it,  but  the  thir- 
teenth Earl  of  Talgarth  was  exactly  like  a  man  in 
a  book  —  and  not  a  very  good  book.  His  charac- 
ter was,  so  to  speak,  cut  out  of  cardboard  —  stiff 
cardboard,  and  highly  colored,  with  gilt  edges  show- 
ing here  and  there.  He  also,  as  has  been  said,  re- 
sembled a  nobleman  on  the  stage  of  the  Adelphi. 
He  had  a  handsome  inflamed  face,  with  an  aquiline 
nose  and  white  eyebrows  that  moved  up  and  down, 
and  all  the  other  things ;  he  was  stout  and  tall,  suf- 
fered from  the  gout,  and  carried  with  him  in  the 
house  a  black  stick  with  an  india-rubber  pad  on  the 


54  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

end.  There  were  no  shades  about  him  at  all.  Con- 
struct a  conventionally  theatrical  heavy  father,  of 
noble  family,  and  you  have  Lord  Talgarth  to  the 
life.  There  really  are  people  like  this  in  the  world 
—  of  whom,  too,  one  can  prophesy,  with  tolerable 
certainty,  how  they  will  behave  in  any  given  situa- 
tion. 

Certainly,  Lord  Talgarth  was  behaving  in  charac- 
ter now.  He  had  received  meek  Mr.  Mackintosh's 
deferential  telegram,  occupying  several  sheets,  in- 
forming him  that  his  son  had  held  an  auction  of 
all  his  belongings,  and  had  proposed  to  take  to  the 
roads;  asking,  also,  for  instructions  as  to  how  to 
deal  with  him.  And  the  hint  of  defiant  obstinacy 
on  the  part  of  Frank  —  the  fact,  indeed,  that  he 
had  taken  his  father  at  his  word  —  had  thrown 
that  father  into  a  yet  more  violent  fit  of  passion. 
Jenny  had  heard  him  spluttering  and  exclamatory 
with  anger  as  she  came  into  the  hall  (the  telegram 
had  but  that  instant  been  put  into  his  hands),  and 
even  now  the  footmen,  still  a  little  pale,  were  ex- 
changing winks  in  the  hall  outside ;  while  Clarkson, 
his  valet,  and  the  butler  stood  in  high  and  subdued 
conference  a  little  way  off. 

What  Lord  Talgarth  would  really  have  wished 
was  that  Frank  should  have  written  to  him  a  sub- 
missive—  even  though  a  disobedient  —  letter,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  could  not  forego  his  convictions, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  55 

and  preparing  to  assume  the  role  of  a  Christian 
martyr.  For  he  could  have  sneered  at  this,  and 
after  suitable  discipline  forgiven  its  writer  more  or 
less.  Of  course,  he  had  never  intended  for  one 
instant  that  his  threats  should  really  be  carried  out ; 
but  the  situation  —  to  one  of  Lord  Talgarth's  tem- 
perament—  demanded  that  the  threats  should  be 
made,  and  that  Frank  should  pretend  to  be  crushed 
by  them.  That  the  boy  should  have  behaved  like 
this  brought  a  reality  of  passion  into  the  affair  — 
disconcerting  and  infuriating  —  as  if  an  actor 
should  find  his  enemy  on  the  stage  was  armed  with 
a  real  sword.  There  was  but  one  possibility  left 
—  which  Lord  Talgarth  instinctively  rather  than 
consciously  grasped  at  —  namely,  that  an  increased 
fury  on  his  part  should  once  more  bring  realities 
back  again  to  a  melodramatic  level,  and  leave  him- 
self, as  father,  master  both  of  the  situation  and  of 
his  most  disconcerting  son.  Frank  had  behaved 
like  this  in  minor  matters  once  or  twice  before,  and 
Lord  Talgarth  had  always  come  off  victor.  After 
all,  he  commanded  all  the  accessories. 

When  the  speeches  had  been  made  —  Frank  cut 
off  with  a  shilling,  driven  to  the  Colonies,  brought 
back  again,  and  finally  starved  to  death  at  his 
father's  gates  —  Lord  Talgarth  found  himself  in 
a  chair,  with  Jenny  seated  opposite,  and  the  rest  of 


56  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  company  gone  to  dinner.  He  did  not  quite  re- 
alize how  it  had  all  been  brought  about,  nor  by 
whose  arrangement  it  was  that  a  plate  of  soup  and 
some  fish  were  to  come  presently,  and  Jenny  and 
he  to  dine  together. 

He  pulled  himself  together  a  little,  however,  and 
began  to  use  phrases  again  about  his  "  graceless 
son,"  and  "  the  young  villain,"  and  "  not  a  penny 
of  his."  (He  was,  of  course,  genuinely  angry; 
that  must  be  understood.) 

Then  Jenny  began  to  talk. 

"  I  think,  you  know,"  she  said  quietly,  "  that  you 
aren't  going  the  right  way  to  work.  (It's  very  im- 
pertinent of  me,  isn't  it?  —  but  you  did  say  just 
now  you  wanted  to  hear  what  I  thought.)" 

"  Of  course  I  do;  of  course  I  do.  You're  a  sen- 
sible girl,  my  dear.  I've  always  said  that.  But 
as  for  this  young — " 

"  Well,  let  me  say  what  I  think.  (Yes,  put  the 
soup  down  here,  will  you.  Is  that  right,  Lord  Tal- 
garth?)."  She  waited  till  the  man  was  gone  again 
and  the  old  man  had  taken  up  his  spoon.  Then  she 
took  up  her  own.  "  Well,  I  think  what  you've  done 
is  exactly  the  thing  to  make  Frank  more  obstinate 
than  ever.  You  see,  I  know  him  very  well.  Now, 
if  you'd  only  laughed  at  him  and  patted  his  head, 
so  to  speak,  from  the  beginning,  and  told  him  you 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  57 

thought  it  an  excellent  thing  for  a  boy  of  his  char- 
acter, who  wants  looking  after — " 

Lord  Talgarth  glared  at  her.  He  was  still 
breathing  rather  heavily,  and  was  making  some- 
thing of  a  noise  over  his  soup. 

"  But  how  can  I  say  that,  when  I  think  — " 

"Oh!  you  can't  say  it  now,  of  course;  it's  too 
late.  No;  that  would  never  do.  You  must  keep 
it  up  —  only  you  mustn't  be  really  angry.  Why 
not  try  a  little  cold  severity?" 

She  looked  so  charming  and  humorous  that  the 
old  man  began  to  melt  a  little.  He  glanced  up  at 
her  once  or  twice  under  his  heavy  eyebrows. 

"  I  wonder  what  you'll  do,"  he  said  with  a  kind 
of  gruffness,  "  when  you  find  you've  got  to  marry  a 
pauper? " 

"  I  shan't  have  to  marry  a  pauper,"  said  Jenny. 
"  That  wouldn't  do  either." 

"Oh!  you're  counting  on  that  eight  hundred  a 
year  still,  are  you  ?  " 

Jenny  allowed  a  little  coldness  to  appear  on  her 
face.  Rude  banter  was  all  very  well,  but  it  mustn't 
go  too  far.  (Secretly  she  allowed  to  herself  some- 
times that  this  old  man  had  elements  of  the  cad  in 
his  character.) 

"  That's  entirely  my  own  affair,"  she  said,  "  and 
Frank's." 


58  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Lord  Talgarth  blazed  up  a  little. 

"  And  the  eight  hundred  a  year  is  mine,"  he  said. 

Jenny  laid  down  her  spoon  as  the  servant  reap- 
peared with  the  fish  and  the  menu-card.  He  came 
very  opportunely.  And  while  her  host  was  con- 
sidering what  he  would  eat  next,  she  was  pondering 
her  next  move. 

Jenny,  as  has  been  said,  was  an  exceedingly 
sensible  girl.  She  had  grown  up  in  the  Rectory, 
down  at  the  park  gates;  and  since  her  mother's 
death,  three  years  previously,  had  managed  her 
father's  house,  including  her  father,  with  great  suc- 
cess. She  had  begun  to  extend  her  influence,  for 
the  last  year  or  two,  even  over  the  formidable  lord 
of  the  manor  himself,  and,  as  has  been  seen,  was 
engaged  to  his  son.  Her  judgment  was  usually 
very  sound  and  very  sane,  and  the  two  men,  with 
the  Rector,  had  been  perfectly  right  just  now  in 
leaving  the  old  man  to  her  care  for  an  hour  or  so. 
If  anything  could  quiet  him  it  would  be  this  girl. 
She  was  quite  fearless,  quite  dignified,  and  quite 
able  to  hold  her  own.  And  her  father  perceived 
that  she  rather  enjoyed  it. 

When  the  man  had  gone  out  again,  she  resumed : 

"  Well,  let's  leave  it,"  she  said,  "  for  a  day  or 
two.  There's  no  hurry,  and  — " 

"  But  I  must  answer  this  —  this  telegram,"  he 


OT11KR  GO  US  59 

growled.     "What   am   I   to   say   to   the    feller?" 

"  Tell  him  to  follow  his  discretion,  and  that  you 
have  complete  confidence  — " 

«  But  — " 

"  Yes ;  I  know  you  haven't,  really.     But  it'll  do 
no  harm,  and  it'll  make  him  feel  important." 

"  And  what  if  the  boy  does  take  to  the  roads?  " 

"  Let  him,"  said  Jenny  coolly.     "  It  won't  kill 
bun." 

He  looked  up  at  her  again  in  silence. 

Jenny  herself  was  very  far  from  comfortable, 
though  she  was  conscious  of  real  pleasure,  too,  in 
the  situation.  She  had  seen  this  old  man  in  a 
passion  pretty  often,  but  she  had  never  seen  him  in* 
a  passion  with  any  real  excuse.  No  one  ever 
thwarted  him.  He  even  decided  where  his  doctor 
should  send  him  for  his  cure,  and  in  what  month, 
and  for  how  long.  And  she  was  not,  therefore, 
quite  certain  what  would  happen,  for  she  knew 
Frank  well  enough  to  be  quite  sure  that  he  meant 
what  he  said.  However,  she  reflected,  the  main 
thing  at  present  was  to  smooth  things  down  all 
round  as  far  as  possible.  Then  she  could  judge. 

"  Can't   make  out   why  you  ever  consented   to 
marry  such  a  chap  at  all !  "  he  growled  presently. 

"  Oh,  well  — "  said  Jenny. 


60  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

(m) 

It  was  a  delicious  evening,  and  the  three  men, 
after  dinner,  strolled  out  on  to  the  broad  terrace 
that  ran,  looking  over  the  lake,  straight  up  and 
down  the  long  side  of  the  house.  They  had  not 
had  the  advantage,  since  the  servants  were  in  the 
room,  of  talking  over  the  situation  as  they  wished, 
and  there  was  no  knowing  when  Lord  Talgarth  and 
Jenny  might  emerge.  So  they  sat  down  at  a  little 
stone  table  at  the  end  furthest  from  the  smoking- 
room,  and  Archie  and  Dick  lit  their  cigarettes. 

There  is  not  a  great  deal  to  say  about  the  Rec- 
tor. The  most  effective  fact  about  him  was  that 
he  was  the  father  of  Jenny.  It  was  a  case,  here, 
of  "  Averill  following  Averill " :  his  father  and 
grandfather,  both  second  sons,  as  was  the  Rector 
himself,  had  held  the  living  before  him,  and  had 
performed  the  duties  of  it  in  the  traditional  and 
perfectly  respectable  way.  This  one  was  a  quiet 
middle-aged  man,  clean-shaven  except  for  two  small 
whiskers.  He  wore  a  white  tie,  and  a  small  gold 
stud  was  visible  in  the  long  slit  of  his  white  shirt- 
front.  He  was  on  very  easy  terms  in  this  house, 
in  an  unintimate  manner,  and  dined  here  once  a 
fortnight  or  so,  without  saying  or  hearing  anything 
of  particular  interest.  He  had  been  secretly  de- 
lighted at  his  daughter's  engagement,  and  had  given 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  61 

his  consent  with  t^'ntU1  and  reserved  cordiality. 
He  was  a  Tory,  not  exactly  by  choice,  but  simply 
—  for  the  same  reason  as  he  was  Church  of  Eng- 
land —  because  he  was  unable,  in  the  fiber  of  him, 
to  imagine  anything  else.  Of  course,  Lord  Tal- 
garth was  the  principal  personage  in  his  world, 
simply  because  he  was  Lord  Talgarth  and  owned 
practically  the  whole  parish  and  two-thirds  of  the 
next.  He  regarded  his  daughter  with  the  greatest 
respect,  and  left  in  her  hands  everything  that  he 
decently  could.  And,  to  do  her  justice,  Jenny  was 
a  very  benevolent,  as  well  as  capable,  despot.  In 
short,  the  Rector  plays  no  great  part  in  this  drama 
beyond  that  of  a  discreet,  and  mostly  silent,  Greek 
chorus  of  unimpeachable  character.  He  disap- 
proved deeply,  of  course,  of  Frank's  change  of  re- 
ligion —  but  he  disapproved  with  that  same  part  of 
him  that  appreciated  Lord  Talgarth.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Catholicism,  in  his  daughter's  future  hus- 
band, was  a  defect  of  the  same  kind  as  would  be 
a  wooden  leg  or  an  unpleasant  habit  of  sniffing  —  a 
drawback,  yet  not  insuperable.  He  would  be  con- 
siderably relieved  if  it  could  be  cured. 

The  three  men  sat  there  for  some  while  without 
interruption  from  the  smoking-room,  while  the 
evening  breeze  died,  the  rosy  sky  paled,  and  the 
stars  came  out  one  by  one,  like  diamonds  in  the 


62  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

clear  blue.  They  said,  of  course,  all  the  proper 
things,  and  Dick  heard  a  little  more  than  he  had 
previously  known. 

Dick  was  always  conscious  of  a  faint,  almost 
impersonal,  resentment  against  destiny  when  he 
stayed  at  Merefield.  It  was  obvious  to  him  that 
the  position  of  heir  there  was  one  which  would  ex- 
actly have  suited  his  tastes  and  temperament.  He 
was  extremely  pleased  to  belong  to  the  family  — 
and  it  was,  indeed,  a  very  exceptional  family  as 
regards  history:  it  had  been  represented  in  nearly 
every  catastrophe  since  the  Norman  Conquest,  and 
always  on  the  winning  side,  except  once  —  but  it 
was  difficult  to  enjoy  the  distinction  as  it  deserved, 
living,  as  he  did,  in  a  flat  in  London  all  by  himself. 
When  his  name  was  mentioned  to  a  well-informed 
stranger,  it  was  always  greeted  by  the  question  as 
to  whether  he  was  one  of  the  Guiseleys  of  Mere- 
field,  and  it  seemed  to  him  singularly  annoying  that 
he  could  only  answer  "  First  cousin."  Archie,  of 
course,  was  a  satisfactory  heir;  there  was  no  ques- 
tion of  that  —  he  was  completely  of  Dick's  own 
school  of  manner  —  but  it  seemed  a  kind  of  out- 
rage that  Frank,  with  his  violent  convictions  and 
his  escapades,  should  be  Archie's  only  brother. 
There  was  little  of  that  repose  about  him  that  a 
Guiseley  needed. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  03 

It  would  be  about  half-past  nine  that  the  sound 
of  an  opening  door,  and  voices,  from  the  further 
end  of  the  terrace,  told  them  that  the  smoking- 
room  conference  was  over,  and  they  stood  up  as 
Jenny,  very  upright  and  pale  in  the  twilight,  with 
her  host  at  her  side,  came  up  towards  them.  Dick 
noticed  that  the  cigar  his  uncle  carried  was  smoked 
down  almost  to  the  butt,  and  augured  well  from 
that  detail.  The  old  man's  arm  was  in  the  girl's, 
and  he  supported  himself  on  the  other  side,  limping 
a  little,  on  his  black  stick. 

He  sat  down  with  a  grunt  and  laid  his  stick 
across  the  table. 

"  Well,  boys,  we've  settled  it,"  he  said.  "  Jenny's 
to  write  the  telegram." 

"  No  one  need  be  anxious  any  more,"  announced 
Jenny  imperturbably.  "  Lord  Talgarth's  extremely 
angry  still,  as  he  has  every  right  to  be,  and  Frank's 
going  to  be  allowed  to  go  on  the  tramp  if  he  wants 
to." 

The  Rector  waited,  in  deferential  silence,  for 
corroboration. 

"  Jenny's  a  very  sensible  girl,"  observed  Lord 
Talgarth.  "  And  what  she  says  is  quite  right." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  — "  began  Archie. 

The  old  man  frowned  round  at  him. 

"  All    that    I've    said    holds    good,"    he    said. 


64  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Frank's  made  his  bed  and  he  must  lie  on  it.  I 
warned  him.  And  Jenny  sees  that,  too." 

Archie  glanced  at  the  girl,  and  Dick  looked  hard 
at  her,  straight  into  her  face.  But  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  sign  there  of  any  perturbation.  Certainly 
she  looked  white  in  the  falling  dusk,  but  her  eyes 
were  merry  and  steadfast,  and  her  voice  perfectly 
natural. 

"  That's  how  we've  settled  it,"  she  said.  "  And 
if  I'm  satisfied,  I  imagine  everyone  else  ought  to 
be.  And  I'm  going  to  write  Frank  a  good  long 
letter  all  by  myself.  Come  along,  father,  we  must 
be  going.  Lord  Talgarth  isn't  well,  and  we  mustn't 
keep  him  up." 

(IV) 

When  the  last  game  of  billiards  had  been  played, 
and  whisky  had  been  drunk,  and  Archie  had  taken 
up  his  candle,  Dick  stood  still,  with  his  own  in  his 
hand. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  said  Archie. 

Dick  paused. 

"  I  think  I'll  smoke  one  more  cigarette  on  the 
terrace,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  heavenly  night,  and  I 
want  to  get  the  taste  of  the  train  out  of  my  mouth." 

"  All  right,  then.  Lock  up,  will  you,  when  you 
come  in?  I'm  off." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  65 

It  was,  indeed,  a  heavenly  night.  Behind  him  as 
he  sat  at  the  table  where  they  had  had  coffee  the 
great  house  shimmered  pale  in  the  summer  twilight, 
broken  here  by  a  line  or  two  of  yellow  light  behind 
shuttered  windows,  here  with  the  big  oriel  window 
of  the  hall,  blazing  with  coats,  fully  illuminated. 
(He  must  remember,  he  thought,  to  put  out  the 
lights  there  as  he  went  to  bed.) 

And  about  him  was  the  great  soft,  sweet-smelling 
darkness,  roofed  in  by  the  far-off  sky  alight  with 
stars;  and  beneath  him  in  the  valley  he  could  catch 
the  glimmer  of  the  big  lake  and  the  blotted  masses 
of  pine  and  cypress  black  against  it. 

It  was  here,  then,  under  these  circumstances,  that 
Dick  confessed  to  himself,  frankly  and  openly  for 
the  first  time,  that  he  was  in  love  with  Jenny 
Launton. 

He  had  known  her  for  years,  off  and  on,  and  had 
thought  of  her  as  a  pretty  girl  and  a  pleasant  com- 
panion. He  had  skated  with  her,  ridden  with  her, 
danced  with  her,  and  had  only  understood,  with 
a  sense  of  mild  shock,  at  the  time  of  her  engage- 
ment to  Frank  six  months  before,  that  she  was  of 
an  age  to  become  a  wife  to  someone. 

That  had  been  the  beginning  of  a  process  which 
culminated  to-night,  as  he  now  understood  per- 
fectly. Its  next  step  had  been  a  vague  wonder 
\\liv  Archie  hadn't  fallen  in  love  with  her  himself; 


66  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  he  had  explained  it  by  saying  that  Archie  had 
too  great  a  sense  of  his  own  importance  to  permit 
himself  to  marry  a  rector's  daughter  with  only  a 
couple  of  hundred  a  year  of  her  own.  (And  in  this 
explanation  I  think  he  was  quite  correct.)  Then 
he  had  begun  to  think  of  her  himself  a  good  deal 
—  dramatically,  rather  than  realistically  —  wonder- 
ing what  it  would  feel  like  to  be  engaged  to  her.  If 
a  younger  son  could  marry  her,  surely  a  first  cousin 
could  —  even  of  the  Guiseleys.  So  it  had  gone  on, 
little  by  little.  He  had  danced  with  her  here  at 
Christmas  —  just  after  the  engagement  —  and  had 
stayed  on  a  week  longer  than  he  had  intended.  He 
had  come  up  again  at  Easter,  and  again  at  Whitsun- 
tide, though  he  always  protested  to  his  friends  that 
there  was  nothing  to  do  at  Merefield  in  the  summer. 
And  now  here  he  was  again,  and  the  thing  had  hap- 
pened. 

At  first,  as  he  sat  here,  he  tried  to  analyze  his  at- 
titude to  Frank. 

He  had  never  approved  of  Frank  altogether;  he 
didn't  quite  like  the  queer  kinds  of  things  that 
Frank  did ;  for  Frank's  reputation  at  Merefield  was 
very  much  what  it  was  at  Cambridge.  He  did 
ridiculous  and  undignified  things.  As  a  small  boy, 
he  had  fought  at  least  three  pitched  battles  in  the 
village,  and  that  was  not  a  proper  thing  for  a 


NX)  Nl£  OTHER  GODS  67 

Guiseley  to  do.  He  liked  to  go  out  with  the  keep- 
ers after  poachers,  and  Dick,  very  properly,  asked 
himself  what  keepers  were  for  except  to  do  that 
kind  of  thing  for  you?  There  had  been  a  bad  row 
here,  too,  scarcely  eighteen  months  ago ;  it  had  been 
something  to  do  with  a  horse  that  was  ill-treated, 
and  Frank  had  cut  a  very  absurd  and  ridiculous  fig- 
ure, getting  hot  and  angry,  and  finally  thrashing  a 
groom,  or  somebody,  with  his  own  hands,  and  there 
had  been  uncomfortable  talk  about  police-courts 
and  actions  for  assault.  Finally,  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with,  proposed  to,  and  become  engaged  to, 
Jenny  Launton.  That  was  an  improper  thing  for 
a  younger  son  to  do,  anyhow,  at  his  age,  and  Dick 
now  perceived  that  the  fact  that  Jenny  was  Jenny 
aggravated  the  offense  a  hundredfold.  And,  last 
of  all,  he  had  become  a  Catholic  —  an  act  of  en- 
thusiasm which  seemed  to  Dick  really  vulgar. 

Altogether,  then,  Frank  was  not  a  satisfactory 
person,  and  it  would  do  him  no  harm  to  have  a  little 
real  discipline  at  last.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  striking  of  midnight  from  the  stable 
clock  that  woke  Dick  up  from  his  deep  reverie, 
and  was  the  occasion  of  his  perceiving  that  he  had 
come  to  no  conclusion  about  anything,  except  that 
Frank  was  an  ass,  that  Jenny  was  —  well  —  Jenny, 
and  that  he,  Dick,  was  an  ill-used  person. 


68  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

I  do  not  like  to  set  down  here,  even  if  I  could,  all 
the  considerations  that  had  passed  through  Dick's 
mind  since  a  quarter-past  eleven,  simply  because  the 
very  statement  of  them  would  give  a  false  impres- 
sion. Dick  was  not  a  knave,  and  he  did  not  deceive 
himself  about  himself  more  than  most  of  us  do. 
Yet  he  had  considered  a  number  of  points  that, 
strictly  speaking,  he  ought  not  to  have  considered. 
He  had  wondered  whether  Frank  would  die ;  he 
had  wondered  whether,  if  he  did  not,  Lord  Tal- 
garth  would  really  be  as  good  as  his  word;  and,  if 
so,  what  effect  that  would  have  on  Jenny.  Finally, 
he  had  wondered,  with  a  good  deal  of  intellectual 
application,  what  exactly  Jenny  had  meant  when 
she  had  announced  all  that  about  the  telegram  she 
was  going  to  send  in  Lord  Talgarth's  name,  and  the 
letter  she  was  going  to  send  in  her  own.  ( He  had 
asked  Archie  just  now  in  the  smoking-room,  and 
he,  too,  had  confessed  himself  beaten.  Only,  he 
had  been  quite  sure  that  Jenny  would  get  her  way 
and  obtain  Frank's  forgiveness.) 

Also,  in  the  course  of  his  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  he  had  considered,  for  perhaps  the  hundredth 
time  since  he  had  come  to  the  age  of  discretion, 
what  exactly  three  lives  between  a  man  and  a  title 
stood  for.  Lord  Talgarth  was  old  and  gouty; 
Archie  was  not  married,  and  showed  no  signs  of 


NONE  OT11KK  (iODS  69 

it ;  and  Frank  —  well,  Frank  was  always  adventur- 
"iis  and  always  in  trouble. 

Well,  1  have  set  down  the  points,  after  all.  But 
it  must  not  be  thought  that  the  gentleman  with  the 
pointed  brown  beard  and  thoughtful  eyes,  who  at 
live  minutes  past  twelve  went  up  the  two  steps  into 
the  smoking-room,  locked  the  doors,  as  he  had  been 
directed,  took  up  his  candle  and  went  to  bed,  went 
with  an  uneasy  conscience,  or,  in  fact,  was  a  villain 
in  any  way  whatever. 


CHAPTER  III 

(i) 

^T^HE  first  spot  in  Frank's  pilgrimage  which  I 
have  been  able  to  visit  and  identify  in  such  a 
way  that  I  am  able  to  form  to  myself  a  picture  of 
his  adventure  more  or  less  complete  in  all  its  parts, 
lies  about  ten  miles  north-west  of  Doncaster,  in 
a  little  valley,  where  curiously  enough  another  pil- 
grim named  Richard  lived  for  a  little  while  nearly 
six  hundred  years  ago. 

Up  to  the  time  of  Frank's  coming  there,  in  the 
season  of  hay-making,  numberless  little  incidents  of 
his  experience  stand  out,  vivid,  indeed,  but  frag- 
mentary, yet  they  do  not  form  to  my  mind  a  co- 
herent whole.  I  think  I  understand  to  some  extent 
the  process  by  which  he  became  accustomed  to  or- 
dinary physical  hard  living,  into  which  the  initiation 
began  with  his  series  of  almost  wholly  sleepless 
nights  and  heavy  sleep-burdened  days.  Night  was 
too  strange  —  in  barns,  beneath  hay-ricks,  in  little 
oppressive  rooms,  in  stable-lofts  —  for  him  to  sleep 
easily  at  first;  and  between  his  tramps,  or  in  the 
dinner-hour,  when  he  managed  to  get  work,  he 
70 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  71 

would  drop  off  in  the  hot  sunshine  clown  into  depths 
of  that  kind  of  rest  that  is  like  the  sea  itself  — 
glimmering  gulfs,  lit  by  glimpses  of  consciousness 
of  the  grass  beneath  his  cheek,  the  bubble  of  bird- 
song  in  the  copses,  stretching  down  into  profound 
and  utter  darkness. 

Of  how  the  little  happenings  of  every  day  wore 
themselves  into  a  coherent  whole,  and  modified, 
not  indeed  himself,  but  his  manner  of  life  and  his 
experience  and  knowledge,  I  can  make  no  real  pic- 
ture at  all.  The  first  of  these  took  place  within 
ten  miles  of  Cambridge  on  his  first  morning,  and 
resulted  in  the  bruised  face  which  Mr.  Harris  no- 
ticed ;  it  concerned  a  piece  of  brutality  to  a  dog  in 
which  Frank  interfered.  .  .  .  (He  was  ex- 
traordinarily tender  to  animals.)  Then  there  was 
the  learning  as  to  how  work  was  obtained,  and, 
even  more  considerable,  the  doing  of  the  work. 
The  amateur,  as  Frank  pointed  out  later,  began  too 
vigorously  and  became  exhausted;  the  professional 
set  out  with  the  same  deliberation  with  which  he 
ended.  One  must  not  run  at  one's  spade,  or  hoe, 
or  whatever  it  was ;  one  must  exercise  a  wearisome 
self-control  .  .  .  survey  the  work  to  be  done, 
turn  slowly,  spit  on  one's  hands,  and  after  a  pause 
begin,  remembering  that  the  same  activity  must 
show  itself,  if  the  work  was  to  be  renewed  next 
day,  up  to  the  moment  of  leaving  o£. 


72  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Then  there  was  the  need  of  becoming  accustomed 
to  an  entirely  different  kind  of  food,  eaten  in  an  en- 
tirely different  way,  and  under  entirely  different 
circumstances.  There  was  experience  to  be  gained 
as  to  washing  clothes  —  I  can  almost  see  Frank 
now  by  a  certain  kind  of  stream,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  waiting  while  his  shirt  dried,  smoking  an  ill- 
rolled  cigarette,  yet  alert  for  the  gamekeeper. 
Above  all,  there  was  an  immense  volume  of  learning 
—  or,  rather,  a  training  of  instinct  —  to  be  gained 
respecting  human  nature:  a  knowledge  of  the  kind 
of  man  who  would  give  work,  the  kind  of  man  who 
meant  what  he  said,  and  the  kind  of  man  who  did 
not;  the  kind  of  woman  who  would  threaten  the 
police  if  milk  or  bread  were  asked  for  —  Frank 
learned  to  beg  very  quickly  —  the  kind  of  woman 
who  would  add  twopence  and  tell  him  to  be  off,  and 
the  kind  of  woman  who,  after  a  pause  and  a  slow 
scrutiny,  would  deliberately  refuse  to  supply  a  glass 
of  water.  Then  there  was  the  atmosphere  of  the 
little  towns  to  be  learned  —  the  intolerable  weari- 
ness of  pavements,  and  the  patient  persistence  of 
policemen  who  would  not  allow  you  to  sit  down. 
He  discovered,  also,  during  his  wanderings,  the 
universal  fact  that  policemen  are  usually  good- 
hearted,  but  with  absolutely  no  sense  of  humor 
whatever;  he  learned  this  through  various  attempts 
to  feign  that  the  policeman  was  in  fancy-dress  cos- 


NONE  OTIIKR  GODS  73 

tumc  and  had  no  real  authority.  He  learned,  too, 
that  all  crimes  pale  before  "  resisting  the  police  in 
the  execution  of  their  duty  ";  then,  he  had  to  learn, 
too,  the  way  in  which  other  tramps  must  be  ap- 
proached —  the  silences  necessary,  the  sort  of  ques- 
tions \\liich  were  useless,  the  jokes  that  must  be 
laughed  at  and  the  jokes  that  must  be  resented. 

All  this  is  beyond  me  altogether;  it  was  beyond 
even  Frank's  own  powers  of  description.  A  boy, 
coming  home  for  the  holidays  for  the  first  time, 
cannot  make  clear  to  his  mother,  or  even  to  him- 
self, what  it  is  that  has  so  utterly  changed  his 
point  of  view,  and  his  relations  towards  familiar 
things. 

So  with  Frank. 

He  could  draw  countless  little  vignettes  of  his  ex- 
periences and  emotions  —  the  particular  sensation 
elicited,  for  example,  by  seeing  through  iron  gates 
happy  people  on  a  lawn  at  tea  —  the  white  china, 
the  silver,  the  dresses,  the  flannels,  the  lawn-tennis 
net  —  as  he  went  past,  with  string  tied  below  his 
knees  to  keep  off  the  drag  of  the  trousers,  and  a 
sore  heel ;  the  emotion  of  being  passed  by  a  boy  and 
a  girl  on  horseback;  the  flood  of  indescribable  as- 
sociations roused  by  walking  for  half  a  day  past 
the  split-oak  paling  of  a  great  park,  with  lodge- 
gates  here  and  there,  the  cooing  of  wood-pigeons, 


74  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  the  big  house,  among  its  lawns  and  cedars  and 
geranium-beds,  seen  now  and  then,  far  off  in  the 
midst.  But  what  he  could  not  describe,  or  under- 
stand, was  the  inner  alchemy  by  which  this  new  re- 
lation to  things  modified  his  own  soul,  and  gave 
him  a  point  of  view  utterly  new  and  bewildering. 
Curiously  enough,  however  (as  it  seems  to  me), 
he  never  seriously  considered  the  possibility  of 
abandoning  this  way  of  life,  and  capitulating  to  his 
father.  A  number  of  things,  I  suppose  —  incon- 
ceivable to  myself  —  contributed  to  his  purpose ; 
his  gipsy  blood,  his  extraordinary  passion  for  ro- 
mance, the  attraction  of  a  thing  simply  because  it 
was  daring  and  unusual,  and  finally,  a  very  excep- 
tionally strong  will  that,  for  myself,  I  should  call 
obstinacy. 

The  silence  —  as  regards  his  old  world  —  was 
absolute  and  unbroken.  He  knew  perfectly  well 
that  by  now  letters  and  telegrams  must  be  waiting 
for  him  at  Jack's  home,  including  at  least  one  from 
Jenny,  and  probably  a  dozen;  but  as  to  Jenny,  he 
knew  she  would  understand,  and  as  to  the  rest,  he 
honestly  did  not  care  at  all.  He  sent  her  a  picture 
postcard  once  or  twice  —  from  Ely,  Peterborough, 
Sleaford  and  Newark  —  towns  where  he  stayed  for 
a  Sunday  (I  have  seen  in  Sleaford  the  little  room 
where  he  treated  himself  to  a  bed  for  two  nights) 
—  and  was  content.  He  made  no  particular  plans 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  75 

for  the  future ;  he  supposed  something  would  turn 
up;  and  he  settled  with  himself,  by  the  help  of  that 
same  will  which  I  have  mentioned  before,  that  he 
would  precipitate  no  conclusions  till  he  reached  Bar- 
ham  later  on  in  the  early  autumn. 

His  faith  and  morals  during  these  weeks  are  a 
little  difficult  to  describe.  As  regards  his  morals, 
at  least  in  one  particular  point,  he  had  formulated 
the  doctrine  that,  when  he  was  very  hungry,  game 
might  not  be  touched,  but  that  rabbits  and  birds 
WITC  permissible  if  they  could  be  snared  in  the 
hedges  of  the  high-road.  He  became  an  expert  at 
this  kind  of  thing,  and  Jack  has  described  to  me, 
as  taught  by  Frank,  a  few  devices  of  which  I  was 
entirely  ignorant.  Frank  tramped  for  a  couple  of 
days  with  a  gamekeeper  out  of  work,  and  learned 
these  things  from  him,  as  well  as  one  or  two  simple 
methods  of  out-of-door  cookery.  As  regards  his 
religion,  I  think  I  had  better  not  say  much  just 
now;  very  curious  influences  were  at  work  upon 
him:  I  can  only  say  that  Frank  himself  has  de- 
scribed more  than  once,  when  he  could  be  induced 
t"  talk,  the  extraordinary,  and  indeed  indescribable, 
thrill  with  which  he  saw,  now  and  again,  in  town  or 
country,  a  priest  in  his  vestments  go  to  the  altar  — 
for  he  heard  mass  when  he  could.  .  .  . 

So  much,  then,  is  all  that  I  can  say  of  the  small, 
detached  experiences  that  he  passed  through,  up  to 


76  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  paint  when  he  came  out  one  evening  at  sunset 
from  one  of  the  fields  of  Hampole  where  he  had 
made  hay  all  day,  when  his  job  was  finished,  and 
where  he  met,  for  the  first  time,  the  Major  and 
Gertie  Trustcott. 

(n) 

They  were  standing  with  the  sunset  light  behind 
them,  as  a  glory  —  two  disreputable  figures,  such  as 
one  sees  in  countless  thousands  along  all  the  high- 
roads of  England  in  the  summer.  The  Major  him- 
self was  a  lean  man,  with  a  red  mustache  turning 
gray,  deep-set,  narrow,  blood-shot  eyes,  a  chin  and 
very  square  jaw  shaved  about  two  days  previously. 
He  had  an  old  cricketing  cap  on  his  head,  trousers 
tied  up  with  string,  like  Frank's,  and  one  of  those 
long,  square-tailed,  yellowish  coats  with  broad  side- 
pockets  such  as  a  gamekeeper  might  have  worn 
twenty  years  ago.  One  of  his  boots  was  badly 
burst,  and  he  seemed  to  rest  his  weight  by  prefer- 
ence on  the  other  foot.  He  was  not  prepossessing; 
but  Frank  saw,  with  his  newly-gained  experience, 
that  he  was  different  from  other  tramps.  He 
glanced  at  the  girl  and  saw  that  she  too  was  not 
quite  of  the  regular  type,  though  less  peculiar  than 
her  companion ;  and  he  noticed  with  an  odd  touch 
at  his  heart  that  she  had  certain  characteristics  in 


NONE  UTIll-K  CODS  77 

common  \\itli  Jenny.  She  was  not  so  tall.  l>ut  slu- 
had  the  same  colored  hair  under  a  filthy  while  sun- 
bonnet  and  the  same  kind  of  blue  eyes :  but  her  oval 
face  again  was  weak  and  rather  miserable.  They 
were  both  deeply  sunburned. 

Frank  had  learned  the  discretion  of  the  roads  by 
now.  and  did  no  more  than  jerk  his  head  almost  im- 
perceptibly as  he  went  past.  (He  proposed  to  go 
back  to  the  farm  to  get  his  dwindled  belongings,  as 
the  job  was  over,  and  to  move  on  a  few  miles  north- 
ward before  sleeping.) 

As  he  went,  however,  he  knew  that  the  man  had 
turned  and  was  looking  after  him;  but  he  made  no 
sign.  He  had  no  particular  desire  for  company. 
He  also  knew  by  instinct,  practically  for  certain, 
that  these  two  were  neither  husband  and  wife,  nor 
father  and  daughter.  The  type  was  obvious. 

"  I  say.  sir !  " 

Frank  turned  as  bucolically  as  he  could. 

"  I  say,  sir  —  can  you  direct  this  lady  and  my- 
self to  a  lodging?" 

I  rank  had  tried  to  cultivate  a  low  and  character- 
less kind  of  voice,  as  of  a  servant  or  a  groom  out 
< .  f  work.  He  knew  he  could  never  learn  the  proper 
accent. 

"  Depends  on  what  kind  of  lodging  you  want, 
sir." 


78  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Whaf  d  suit  you  'ud  suit  us,"  said  the  Major 
genially,  dropping  the  "  sir." 

"  I'm  going  further,  sir,"  said  Frank.  "  I've 
done  my  job  here." 

The  Major  turned  to  the  girl,  and  Frank  caught 
the  words,  "  What  d'you  say,  Gertie?  "  There  was 
a  murmur  of  talk ;  and  then  the  man  turned  to  him 
a'gain : 

"If  you've  no  objection,  sir,  we'll  come  with  you. 
My  good  lady  here  is  good  for  a  mile  or  two  more, 
she  says,  and  we'd  like  some  company." 

Frank  hesitated.  He  did  not  in  the  least  wish 
for  company  himself.  He  glanced  at  the  girl 
again. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Then' if  you'll  wait 
here  I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes  —  I've  got  to  get 
my  belongings." 

He  nodded  to  the  low  farm  buildings  in  the  valley 
just  below  the  village. 

"  We  will  await  you  here,  sir,"  said  the  Major 
magnificently,  stroking  his  mustache. 

As  Frank  came  back  up  the  little  hill  a  few  min- 
utes later,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to  what  to 
say  and  do.  It  was  his  first  experience  of  a  gentle- 
man-tramp, and  it  was  obvious  that  under  the  cir- 
cumstances he  could  ndt  pretend  to  be  anything 


NOXI-:  on  IKK  GODS  79 

else  himself.  But  he  was  perfectly  determined  not 
to  tell  his  name.  None  of  his  belongings  had  any- 
thing more  than  his  initials  upon  them,  and  he  de- 
cided to  use  the  name  he  had  already  given  more 
than  once.  Probably  they  would  not  go  far  to- 
gether; but  it  was  worth  while  to  be  on  the  safe 
side. 

He  came  straight  up  to  the  two  as  they  sat  side 
by  side  with  their  feet  in  the  ditch. 

"  I'm  ready,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Yes ;  you've  spotted 
me  all  right." 

"  University  man  and  public  school  boy,"  said  the 
Major  without  moving. 

"  Eton  and  Cambridge,"  said  Frank. 

The  Major  sprang  up. 

"  Harrow  and  the  Army,"  he  said.  "  Shake 
hands." 

This  was  done. 

"  Name  ?  "  said  the  Major. 

Frank  grinned. 

"  I  haven't  my  card  with  me,"  he  said.  "  But 
Frank  Gregory  will  do." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  Major.  "And  'The 
Major '  will  do  for  me.  It  has  the  advantage  of 
being  true.  And  this  lady?  —  well,  we'll  call  her 
my  wife." 

Frank  bowed.     He  felt  he  was  acting  in  some 


8o  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ridiculous  dream;  but  his  sense  of  humor  saved  him. 
The  girl  gave  a  little  awkward  bow  in  response, 
and  dropped  her  eyes.  Certainly  she  was  very  like 
Jenny,  and  .very  unlike. 

"And  a  name?"  asked  Frank.  "We  may  as 
well  have  one  in  case  of  difficulties." 

The  Major  considered. 

"What  do  you  say  to  Trustcott?"  he  asked. 
"Will  that  do?" 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Frank.  "  Major  and  Mrs. 
Trustcott.  .  .  .  Well,  shall  we  be  going?" 

Frank  had  no  particular  views  as  to  lodgings,  or 
even  to  roads,  so  long  as  the  direction  was  more 
or  less  northward.  He  was  aiming,  generally  speak- 
ing, at  Selby  and  York;  and  it  seemed  that  this 
would  suit  the  Major  as  well  as  anything  else. 
There  is,  I  believe,  some  kind  of  routine  amongst 
the  roadsters ;  and  about  that  time  of  the  year  most 
of  them  are  as  far  afield  as  at  any  time  from  their 
winter  quarters.  The  Major  and  Mrs.  Trustcott, 
he  soon  learned,  were  Southerners;  but  they  would 
not  turn  homewards  for  another  three  months  yet, 
at  least.  For  himself,  he  had  no  ideas  beyond  a 
general  intention  to  reach  Barham  some  time  in  the 
autumn,  before  Jack  went  back  to  Cambridge  for 
his  fourth  year. 

"  The  country  is  not  prepossessing  about  here," 


NOXK  OT11KK  CUDS  81 

observed  the  Major  presently;  "  Hampole  is  an  CX- 
beption." 

Frank  glanced  back  at  the  valley  they  were  leav- 
ing. It  had,  indeed,  an  extraordinarily  retired  and 
rural  air;  it  was  a  fertile  little  tract  of  ground, 
very  limited  and  circumscribed,  and  the  rail  that 
ran  through  it  was  the  only  sign  of  the  century. 
But  the  bright  air  was  a  little  dimmed  with  smoke; 
and  already  from  the  point  they  had  reached  tall 
chimneys  began  to  prick  against  the  horizon. 

"  You  have  been  here  before?"  he  said. 

"  \Vhy.  yes:  and  about  this  time  last  year,  wasn't 
it.  (iertie?  I  understand  a  hermit  lived  here  once." 

"A  hermit  might  almost  live  here  to-day,"  said 
Frank. 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  said  the  Major. 

Frank  began  to  wonder,  as  he  walked,  as  to  why 
this  man  was  on  the  roads.  Curiously  enough,  he 
believed  his  statement  that  he  had  been  in  the  army. 
The  air  of  him  seemed  the  right  thing.  A  militia 
captain  would  have  swaggered  more;  a  complete 
impostor  would  have  given  more  details.  Frank 
be.nan  to  fish  for  information. 

"  You  have  been  long  on  the  roads?  "  he  said. 

The  Major  did  not  appear  to  hear  him. 

"  Y<>u  have  been  long  on  the  roads?"  persisted 
Frank. 


82  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

The  other  glanced  at  him  furtively  and  rather 
insolently.  "  The  younger  man  first,  please." 

Frank  smiled. 

"Oh,  certainly!"  he  said.  "Well,  I  have  left 
Cambridge  at  the  end  of  June  only." 

"  Ah !     Anything  disgraceful  ?  " 

"  You  won't  believe  me,  I  suppose,  if  I  say 
'No'?" 

"Oh!     I  daresay  I  shall." 

"  Well,  then,  '  No.'  " 

"Then  may  I  ask—?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  was  kicked  out  by  my  father  —  I 
needn't  go  into  details.  I  sold  up  my  things  and 
came  out.  That's  all !  " 

"  And  you  mean  to  stick  to  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly  —  at  least  for  a  year  or  two." 

"  That's  all  right.  Well,  then  —  Major  —  what 
did  we  say?  Trustcott?  Ah,  yes,  Trustcott. 
Well,  then,  I  think  we  might  add  *  Eleventh  Hus- 
sars ' ;  that's  near  enough.  The  final  catastrophe 
was,  I  think,  cards.  Not  that  I  cheated,  you  un- 
derstand. I  will  allow  no  man  to  say  that  of  me. 
But  that  was  what  was  said.  A  gentleman  of 
spirit,  you  understand,  could  not  remain  in  a  regi- 
ment when  such  things  could  be  said.  Then  we 
tumbled  downhill;  and  I've  been  at  this  for  four 
years.  And,  you  know,  sir,  it  might  be  worse!  " 

Frank  nodded. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  83 

Naturally  he  did  not  believe  as  necessarily  true 
this  terse  little  story,  and  he  was  absolutely  certain 
that  if  cards  were  mixed  up  in  it  at  all,  obviously 
the  Major  had  cheated.  So  he  just  took  the  story 
and  put  it  away,  so  to  speak.  It  was  to  form,  he 
perceived,  the  understanding  on  which  they  con- 
sorted together.  Then  he  began  to  wonder  about 
the  girl.  The  Major  soon  supplied  a  further  form. 

"And  Mrs.  Trustcott,  here?  Well,  she  joined 
me,  let  us  say,  rather  more  than  eighteen  months 
ago.  We  had  been  acquainted  before  that,  however. 
That  was  when  I  was  consenting  to  serve  as  groom 
to  some  —  er  —  some  Jewish  bounder  in  town. 
Mrs.  Trustcott's  parents  live  in  town." 

The  girl,  who  had  been  trudging  patiently  a  foot 
or  two  behind  them,  just  glanced  up  at  Frank  and 
down  again.  He  wondered  exactly  what  her  own 
attitude  was  to  all  this.  But  she  made  no  com- 
ment. 

"  And  now  we  know  one  another,"  finished  the 
Major  in  a  tone  of  genial  finality.  "  So  where  are 
you  taking  us  —  er  —  Mr.  Gregory?  " 

(m) 

They  were  fortunate  that  night. 
The  part  of  Yorkshire  where  they  were  traveling 
consists  chiefly  of  an  innumerable  quantity  of  little 


84  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

cottages,  gathered  for  the  most  part  round  collieries. 
One  has  the  impression  —  at  any  rate,  from  a 
motor  —  that  there  is  nothing  but  villages.  But 
that  is  not  a  fact.  There  are  stretches  of  road, 
quite  solitary  at  certain  hours;  and  in  one  of  these 
they  noticed  presently  a  little  house,  not  twenty 
yards  from  the  road,  once  obviously  forming  part 
of  a  row  of  colliers'  cottages,  of  which  the  rest  were 
demolished. 

It  was  not  far  off  from  ruin  itself,  and  was  very 
plainly  uninhabited.  Across  the  front  door  were 
nailed  deal  props,  originally,  perhaps,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  keeping  it  barred,  and  useful  for  holding  it 
in  its  place.  The  Major  and  Gertie  kept  watch  on 
the  road  while  Frank  pushed  open  the  crazy  little 
gate  and  went  round  to  the  back.  A  minute  later 
he  called  to  them  softly. 

He  had  wrenched  open  the  back  door,  and  within 
in  the  darkness  they  could  make  out  a  little  kitchen, 
stripped  of  everything  —  table,  furniture,  and  even 
the  range  itself.  The  Major  kicked  something 
presently  in  the  gloom,  swore  softly,  and  announced 
he  had  found  a  kettle.  They  decided  that  all  this 
would  do  very  well. 

Tramps  do  not  demand  very  much,  and  these 
were  completely  contented  when  they  had  made  a 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  85 

small  tire,  damped  down  with  a  turf  to  prevent  it 
smoking,  had  boiled  a  little  water,  stewed  some  tea, 
and  eaten  what  they  had.  Even  this  was  not  lux- 
urious. The  Major  produced  the  heel  of  a  cheese 
and  two  crushed-looking  bananas,  and  Frank  a 
half-eaten  tin  of  sardines  and  a  small,  stale  loaf. 
The  Major  announced  presently  that  he  would  make 
a  savory;  and,  indeed,  with  cheese  melted  on  to 
the  bread,  and  sardines  on  the  top,  he  did  very 
well.  Gertie  moved  silently  about;  and  Frank,  in 
the-  intervals  of  rather  abrupt  conversation  with  the 
Major,  found  his  eyes  following  her  as  she  spread 
out  their  small  possessions,  vanished  up  the  stairs 
and  reappeared.  Certainly  she  was  very  like  Jenny, 
even  in  odd  little  details  —  the  line  of  her  eyebrows, 
the  angle  of  her  chin  and  so  forth  —  perhaps  more 
in  these  details  than  in  anything  else.  He  began 
to  wonder  a  little  about  her  —  to  imagine  her  past, 
to  forecast  her  future.  It  seemed  all  rather  sordid. 
She  disappeared  finally  without  a  word:  he  heard 
her  steps  overhead,  and  then  silence. 
Then  he  had  to  attend  to  the  Major  a  little  more. 

"  It  was  easy  enough  to  tell  you,"  said  that  gen- 
tleman. 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  if  nothing  else,  your  clothes," 

"  Aren't  they  shabby  enough?" 


86  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

The  Major  eyed  him  with  half-closed  lids,  by  the 
light  of  the  single  candle-end,  stuck  in  its  own  wax 
on  the  mantelshelf. 

"  They're  shabby  enough,  but  they're  the  wrong 
sort.  There's  the  cut,  first  —  though  that  doesn't 
settle  it.  But  these  are  gray  flannel  trousers,  for 
one  thing,  and  then  the  coat's  not  stout  enough." 

"  They  might  have  been  given  me,"  said  Frank, 
smiling. 

"  They  fit  you  too  well  for  that." 

"  I'll  change  them  when  I  get  a  chance,"  observed 
Frank. 

"  It  would  be  as  well,"  assented  the  Major. 

Somehow  or  another  the  sense  of  sordidness, 
which  presently  began  to  affect  Frank  so  profoundly, 
descended  on  him  for  the  first  time  that  night.  He 
had  managed,  by  his  very  solitariness  hitherto,  to 
escape  it  so  far.  It  had  been  possible  to  keep  up  a 
kind  of  pose  so  far;  to  imagine  the  adventure  in 
the  light  of  a  very  much  prolonged  and  very  real- 
istic picnic.  But  with  this  other  man  the  thing  be- 
came impossible.  It  was  tolerable  to  wash  one's 
own  socks;  it  was  not  so  tolerable  to  see  another 
man's  socks  hung  up  on  the  peeling  mantelpiece  a 
foot  away  from  his  own  head,  and  to  see  two 
dirty  ankles,  not  his  own,  emerging  from  crazy 
boots.  • 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  87 

The  Major,  too,  presently,  when  he  grew  a  trifle 
maudlin  over  his  own  sorrows,  began  to  call  him 
"  Frankie,"  and  "  my  boy,"  and  somehow  it  mat- 
tered, from  a  man  with  the  Major's  obvious  record. 
Frank  pulled  himself  up  only  just  in  time  to  pre- 
vent a  retort  when  it  first  happened,  but  it  was 
not  the  slightest  use  to  be  resentful.  The  thing 
had  to  be  borne.  And  it  became  easier  when  it 
occurred  to  him  to  regard  the  Major  as  a  study ;  it 
was  even  interesting  to  hear  him  give  himself  away, 
yet  all  with  a  pompous  appearance  of  self-respect, 
and  to  recount  his  first  meeting  with  Gertie,  now 
asleep  upstairs. 

The  man  was,  in  fact,  exactly  what  Frank,  in  his 
prosperous  days,  would  have  labeled  "  Bounder." 
He  had  a  number  of  meaningless  little  mannerisms 
—  a  way  of  passing  his  hand  over  his  mustache, 
a  trick  of  bringing  a  look  of  veiled  insolence  into 
his  eyes;  there  were  subjects  he  could  not  keep  away 
from  —  among  them  Harrow  School,  the  Univer- 
sities (which  he  called  'Varsity),  the  regiment  he 
had  belonged  to,  and  a  certain  type  of  adventure 
connected  with  women  and  champagne.  And  un- 
derneath the  whole  crust  of  what  the  Major  took 
to  be  breeding,  there  was  a  piteous  revelation  of  a 
feeble,  vindictive,  and  rather  nasty  character.  It 
became  more  and  more  evident  that  the  cheating 
incident  —  or,  rather,  the  accusation,  as  he  per- 


88  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

sisted  in  calling  it  —  was  merely  the  last  straw  in 
his  fall,  and  that  the  whole  thing  had  been  the  re- 
sult of  a  crumbly  unprincipled  kind  of  will  under- 
neath, rather  than  of  any  particular  strain  of  vice. 
He  appeared,  even  now,  to  think  that  his  traveling 
about  with  a  woman  who  was  not  his  wife  was  a 
sort  of  remnant  of  fallen  splendor — as  a  man  might 
keep  a  couple  of  silver  spoons  out  of  the  ruin  of  his 
house. 

"  I  recommend  you  to  pick  up  with  one,"  re- 
marked the  Major.  "  There  are  plenty  to  be  had, 
if  you  go  about  it  the  right  way." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Frank,  "  but  it's  not  my  line." 

(IV) 

The  morning,  too,  was  a  little  trying. 

Frank  had  passed  a  tolerable  night.  The  Major 
had  retired  upstairs  about  ten  o'clock,  taking  his 
socks  with  him,  presumably  to  sleep  in  them,  and 
Frank  had  heard  him  creaking  about  upstairs  for 
a  minute  or  two;  there  had  followed  two  clumps  as 
the  boots  were  thrown  off;  a  board  suddenly  spoke 
loudly ;  there  was  a  little  talking  —  obviously  the 
Major  had  awakened  Gertie  in  order  to  make  a  re- 
mark or  two  —  and  then  silence. 

Frank  had  not  slept  for  half  an  hour:  he  was 
thinking,  with  some  depression,  of  the  dreary  affair 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  89 

into  which  he  had  been  initiated,  of  the  Major,  and 
of  Gertie,  for  whom  he  was  beginning  to  be  sorry. 
He  did  not  suppose  that  the  man  actually  bullied 
her;  probably  he  had  done  this  sufficiently  for  the 
present  —  she  was  certainly  very  quiet  and  sub- 
dued —  or  perhaps  she  really  admired  him,  and 
thought  it  rather  magnificent  to  travel  about  with 
an  ex-officer.  Anyhow,  it  was  rather  deplorable. 

When  he  awoke  next  morning,  the  depression 
was  on  him  still;  and  it  was  not  lifted  by  the  ap- 
parition of  Gertie  on  which  he  opened  his  eyes  from 
his  corner,  in  an  amazingly  dirty  petticoat,  bare- 
armed,  with  her  hair  in  a  thick  untidy  pig-tail,  try- 
ing to  blow  the  fire  into  warmth  again. 

Frank  jumped  up  —  he  was  in  his  trousers  and 
shirt. 

"  Let  me  do  that,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Gertie  passionlessly. 

The  Major  came  down  ten  minutes  later,  con- 
siderably the  worse  for  his  night's  rest.  Yester- 
day he  had  had  a  day's  beard  on  him ;  to-day  he  had 
two,  and  there  was  a  silvery  sort  of  growth  in  the 
stubble  that  made  it  look  wet.  His  eyes,  too,  were 
red  and  sunken,  and  he  began  almost  instantly  to 
talk  about  a  drink.  Frank  stood  it  for  a  few  min- 
utes, then  he  understood  and  capitulated. 

7 


90  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  I'll  stand  you  one,"  he  said,  "  if  you'll  get  me 
two  packets  of  Cinderellas." 

"What's  the  good  of  that?"  said  the  Major. 
"  Pubs  aren't  open  yet.  It's  only  just  gone  five." 

"  You'll  have  to  wait,  then,"  said  Frank  shortly. 

Presently  the  Major  did  begin  to  bully  Gertie. 
He  asked  her  what  the  devil  was  the  good  of  her  if 
she  couldn't  make  a  fire  burn  better  than  that.  He 
elbowed  her  out  of  the  way  and  set  to  work  at  it 
himself.  She  said  nothing  at  all.  Yet  there  was 
not  the  faintest  use  in  Frank's  interfering,  and,  in- 
deed, there  was  nothing  to  interfere  in. 

Food,  too,  this  morning,  seemed  disgusting;  and 
again  Frank  learned  the  difference  between  a  kind 
of  game  played  by  oneself  and  a  reality  in  which 
two  others  joined.  There  had  been  something  al- 
most pleasing  about  unrolling  the  food  wrapped 
up  at  supper  on  the  previous  night,  and  eating  it, 
with  or  without  cooking,  all  alone;  but  there  was 
something  astonishingly  unpleasant  in  observing 
sardines  that  were  now  common  property  lying  in 
greasy  newspaper,  a  lump  of  bread  from  which 
their  hands  tore  pieces,  and  a  tin  bowl  of  warmish 
cocoa  from  which  all  must  drink.  This  last  detail 
was  a  contribution  on  the  part  of  Major  and  Mrs. 
Trustcott,  and  it  would  have  been  ungracious  to 
refuse.  The  Major,  too,  was  sullen  and  resentful 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  91 

this  morning,   and  growled  at  Gertie  more  than 
once. 

Even  the  weather  seemed  unpropitious  as  they 
set  out  together  again  soon  after  six.  Rain  had 
fallen  in  the  night,  yet  not  all  the  rain  that  there 
was  overhead.  There  were  still  clouds  hanging, 
mixed  with  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys;  the 
hedges  seemed  dulled  and  black  in  spite  of  their 
green ;  the  cinder  path  they  walked  on  was  depress- 
ing, the  rain-fed  road  even  more  so.  They  passed 
a  dozen  men  on  their  way  to  the  pits,  who  made  re- 
marks on  the  three,  and  retaliation  was  out  of  the 
question. 

It  was  very  disconcerting  to  Frank  to  find  the 
difference  that  his  new  circumstances  made;  and 
yet  he  did  not  seriously  consider  changing  them. 
It  seemed  to  him,  somehow  or  other,  in  that  strange 
fashion  in  which  such  feelings  come,  that  the  whole 
matter  was  pre-arranged,  and  that  the  company 
in  which  he  found  himself  was  as  inevitably  his 
—  at  least  for  the  present  —  as  the  family  to  a 
child  born  into  it.  And  there  was,  of  course,  too, 
a  certain  element  of  relief  in  feeling  himself  no 
longer  completely  alone;  and  there  was  also,  as 
Frank  said  later,  a  curious  sense  of  attraction  to- 
wards, and  pity  for,  Gertie  that  held  him  there. 


92  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

At  the  first  public-house  that  was  open  the  Major 
stopped. 

"  I'll  get  your  Cinderellas  now,  if  you  like,"  he 
said. 

This  had  not  been  Frank's  idea,  but  he  hardly 
hesitated. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.     "  Here's  fourpence." 

The  Major  vanished  through  the  swing-doors  as 
a  miner  came  out,  and  a  gush  of  sweet  and  sickly 
scent  —  beer,  spirits,  tobacco  —  poured  upon  the 
fresh  air.  And  there  was  a  vision  of  a  sawdusted 
floor  and  spittoons  within. 

Frank  looked  at  Gertie,  who  had  stopped  like  a 
patient  donkey,  and,  like  a  prudent  one,  had  let  her 
bundle  instantly  down  beside  the  Major's. 

"  Like  one,  too?  "  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  for  me."     .     .     .     And  no  more. 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  the  Major  was  out  again. 

"  Only  had  one  packet  left,"  he  said,  and  with  an 
air  of  extreme  punctiliousness  and  magnanimity  re- 
placed one  penny  in  Frank's  hand.  He  had  the  air 
of  one  who  is  insistent  on  the  little  honesties  of  life. 
There  was  also  a  faintly  spirituous  atmosphere 
about  him,  and  his  eyes  looked  a  little  less  sunken. 

Then  he  handed  over  the  cigarettes. 

"  Shouldn't  mind  one  myself,"  he  said  genially. 

Frank  gave  him  one  before  lighting  his  own. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  93 

"  You're  a  good  sort,"  said  the  Major,  "  and  I 
wish  I  could  give  you  one  of  my  old  cigars  I  used 
to  give  my  friends." 

"Ah!  well,  when  your  ship  comes  home,"  <>1> 
served  Frank,  throwing  away  his  match. 

The  Major  nodded  his  head  as  with  an  air  of 
fallen  grandeur. 

"  Well."  he  said,  "  vorwdrts.  That  means  *  for- 
ward,' my  dear,"  he  explained  to  Gertie. 

Gertie  said  nothing.  They  took  up  their  bundles 
and  went  on. 


(v) 

It  was  not  till  a  week  later  that  Gertie  did  that 
which  was  to  effect  so  much  in  Frank  —  she  con- 
fided in  him. 

The  week  had  consisted  of  the  kind  of  thing  that 
might  be  expected  —  small  negligible  adventures; 
work  now  and  then  —  the  Major  and  Frank  work- 
ing side  by  side  —  a  digging  job  on  one  day,  the 
carrying  of  rather  dingy  smoke-stained  hay  on  an- 
other, the  scraping  of  garden-paths  that  ran  round 
the  small  pink  house  of  a  retired  tradesman,  who 
observed  them  magnificently  through  a  plate-glass 
window  all  the  while,  with  a  cigar  in  his  teeth,  and 
ultimately  gave  them  ninepence  between  them. 
They  slept  here  and  there  —  once,  on  a  rainy  night, 


94  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

in  real  lodgings,  once  below  a  haystack.  Frank 
said  hardly  a  word  to  Gertie,  and  did  little  more 
than  listen  to  the  Major,  who  was  already  begin- 
ning to  repeat  himself;  but  he  was  aware  that  the 
girl  was  watching  him. 

The  crisis  came  about  under  circumstances  that 
might  be  expected  —  on  a  rather  sentimental  kind 
of  Sunday  evening,  in  a  village  whose  name  I  forget 
(perhaps  it  was  Escrick)  between  Selby  and  York. 
Frank  had  made  a  small  excursion  by  himself  in  the 
morning  and  had  managed  to  hear  mass;  they  had 
dined  well  off  cold  bacon  and  beans,  and  had  walked 
on  in  the  afternoon  some  miles  further;  and  they 
came  to  the  village  a  little  after  six  o'clock.  The 
Major  had  a  blister,  which  he  had  exhibited  at  least 
four  times  to  the  company,  and  had  refused  to  go 
further;  and  as  they  came  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  volunteered  to  go  and  look  for  shelter,  if 
the  two  would  wait  for  him  at  a  stile  that  led  across 
fields  to  the  old  church. 

The  scene  was  rather  like  the  setting  of  the  last 
act  in  a  melodrama  of  a  theater  on  the  Surrey  side 
of  the  Thames  —  the  act  in  which  the  injured  hero- 
ine, with  her  child,  sinks  down  fainting  as  the  folk 
are  going  to  church  in  the  old  village  on  a  June 
evening  among  the  trees  —  leading  up  to  moonlight 
effects  and  reunion.  There  was  no  organ  to  play 


NONE  OTHKR  GODS  95 

"off,"  but  the  bells  were  an  excellent  substitute, 
and  it  was  these  that  presently  melted  the  heart  of 
Gertie. 

\Yhen  the  Major  had  disappeared,  limping,  the 
two  climbed  over  the  stile  and  sat  down  with  their 
bundles  under  the  hedge,  but  they  presently  found 
that  they  had  chosen  something  of  a  thoroughfare. 
Voices  came  along  presently,  grew  louder,  and 
stopped  as  the  speakers  climbed  the  stile.  The  first 
pair  was  of  a  boy  and  girl,  who  instantly  clasped 
again  mutual  waists,  and  went  off  up  the  path  across 
the  field  to  the  churchyard  without  noticing  the 
two  tramps ;  their  heads  were  very  near  together. 

Then  other  couples  came  along,  old  and  young, 
and  twice  a  trio  —  one,  two  young  men  in  black, 
who  skirmished  on  either  side  of  a  very  sedate  girl  in 
white;  one,  two  girls  who  shoved  one  another,  and 
giggled,  walking  in  step  three  yards  behind  another 
young  man  with  his  hat  on  one  side,  who  gloried 
in  being  talked  at  and  pretended  to  be  rapt  in  ab- 
straction. Then  some  children  came ;  then  a  family 
—  papa  walking  severely  apart  in  a  silk  hat,  and 
mamma,  stout  and  scarlet-faced,  in  the  midst  of 
the  throng.  Finally  there  came  along  a  very  old 
Darby  and  Joan,  who  with  many  Yorkshire  ejacu- 
lations helped  one  another  over  the  stile,  and  moved 
on  with  bent  heads,  scolding  one  another  affection- 


96  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ately.  It  was  as  this  last  couple  reached  the  spot 
where  the  path  ran  into  the  corn  that  the  peal  of 
four  bells  broke  out,  and  Gertie  broke  down. 

Frank  had  not  been  noticing  her  particularly. 
He  was  gloomy  himself;  the  novelty  of  the  whole 
affair  had  gone ;  the  Major  was  becoming  intoler- 
able, and  Frank's  religion  was  beginning  to  ebb 
from  his  emotions.  Mass  this  morning  had  not 
been  a  success  from  an  emotional  point  of  view; 
he  had  had  an  uncomfortable  seat  on  a  pitch-pine 
bench  in  a  tin  church  with  an  American  organ ;  the 
very  young  priest  had  been  tiresome  and  antipa- 
thetic. .  .  .  Frank  had  done  his  best,  but  he 
was  tired  and  bored ;  the  little  church  had  been  very 
hot,  and  it  was  no  longer  any  fun  to  be  stared  at 
superciliously  by  a  stout  tradesman  as  he  came  out 
into  the  hot  sunshine  afterwards. 

Just  now  he  had  been  watching  the  figures  make 
their  appearance  from  the  stile,  re-form  groups  and 
dwindle  slowly  down  to  the  corn,  and  their  heads 
and  shoulders  bob  along  above  it  —  all  with  a  kind 
of  resentment.  These  people  had  found  their  life; 
he  was  still  looking  for  his.  He  was  watching,  too, 
the  strangely  unreal  appearance  of  the  sunlit  fields, 
the  long  shadows,  the  golden  smoky  light,  and  the 
church  tower,  set  among  cypresses  half  a  mile  away 
—  yet  without  any  conscious  sentiment.  He  had 
not  said  a  word  to  Gertie,  nor  she  to  him,  and  he 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  97 

was  totally  taken  by  surprise  when,  after  the  first 
soft  crash  of  bells  for  evening  service,  she  had  sud- 
denly thrown  herself  round  face  forward  among 
the  grasses  and  burst  out  sobbing. 

"  My  dear  girl !  "  said  Frank,  "  whatever's  the 
matter?  "  Then  he  stopped. 

Fortunately  the  procession  of  worshipers  had 
run  dry,  and  the  two  were  quite  alone.  He  sat  up- 
right, utterly  ignorant  of  what  to  say.  He  thought 
perhaps  she  was  in  pain  .  .  .  should  he  run  for 
the  Major  or  a  doctor?  .  .  .  Then,  as  after 
a  minute  or  two  of  violent  sobbing  she  began  a  few 
incoherent  words,  he  understood. 

"  Oh !  I'm  a  wicked  girl  ...  a  wicked  girl 
.  .  .  it's  all  so  beautiful  .  .  .  the  church 
bells  ...  my  mother!  " 

He  understood,  then,  what  had  precipitated  this 
crisis  and  broken  down  the  girl's  reserve.  It  was, 
in  fact,  exactly  that  same  appeal  which  holds  a  gal- 
lery breathless  and  tearful  in  the  last  act  of  a  Sur- 
rey-side melodrama  —  the  combination  of  Sunday 
quiet,  a  sunset,  church  bells,  associations  and  human 
relationships;  and  Gertie's  little  suburban  soul  re- 
sponded to  it  as  a  bell  to  a  bell-rope.  It  was  this 
kind  of  thing  that  stood  to  her  for  holiness  and 
peace  and  purity,  and  it  had  gone  clean  through  her 


98  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

heart.  And  he  understood,  too,  that  it  was  his 
presence  that  had  allowed  her  to  break  down.  The 
Major's  atmosphere  had  held  her  taut  so  far. 
Frank  was  conscious  of  a  lump  in  his  own  throat 
as  he  stared  out,  helpless,  first  at  the  peaceful  Sun- 
day fields  and  then  down  at  the  shaking  shoulders 
and  the  slender,  ill-clad,  writhed  form  of  Gertie. 
.  .  .  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  .  .  .  he 
hoped  the  Major  would  not  be  back  just  yet.  Then 
he  understood  he  must  say  something. 

"  Don't  cry,"  he  said.     "  The  Major — " 

She  sat  up  on  the  instant  in  sudden  consternation, 
her  pretty,  weak,  sunburned  face  disfigured  with 
tears,  but  braced  for  the  moment  by  fear. 

"No,  no,"  said  Frank;  "he  isn't  coming  yet; 
but—" 

Then  she  was  down  again,  moaning  and  talking. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Oh!  .  .  .  I'm  a  wicked 
girl.  .  .  .  My  mother!  .  .  .  and  I  never 
thought  I  should  come  to  this !  " 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  chuck  it  ? "  said  Frank 
practically. 

"  I  can't !  .  .  .  I  can't !!...!  love 
him !  " 

That  had  not  occurred  to  this  young  man  as  a 
conceivable  possibility,  and  he  sat  silenced.  The 
church-bells  pealed  on ;  the  sun  sank  a  little  lower ; 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  99 

Gertie  sobbed  more  and  more  gently;  and  Frank's 
mind  worked  like  a  mill,  revolving  developments. 
Finally,  she  grew  quiet,  lay  still,  and,  as  the  bells 
gave  place  to  one  of  their  number,  sat  up.  She 
dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  a  handful  of  wet  grass, 
passed  her  sleeve  across  them  once  or  twice,  and 
began  to  talk. 

"I  ...  I'm  very  silly,  Frankie,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  better  now.  Don't  tell 
George." 

"  Of  course  I  shan't!  "  said  Frank  indignantly. 

"  You're  a  gentleman  too,"  said  Gertie.  (Frank 
winced  a  little,  interiorly,  at  the  "too.")  "I  can 
see  that  you're  polite  to  a  lady.  And  I  don't  know 
however  I  came  to  tell  you.  But  there  it  is,  and  no 
harm's  done." 

"Why  don't  you  leave  him?"  said  Frank  cour- 
ageously. A  little  wave  of  feeling  went  over  her 
face. 

"  He's  a  gentleman,"  she  said.  ..."  No,  I 
can't  leave  him.  But  it  does  come  over  you  some- 
times; doesn't  it?"  (Her  face  wavered  again.) 
"  It  was  them  bells,  and  the  people  and  all." 

"  Where's  your  home?  " 

She  jerked  her  head  in  a  vague  direction. 

"  Down  Londonwards,"  she  said.  "  But  that's 
all  done  with.  I've  made  my  bed,  and  — " 


ioo  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Tell  me  plainly:  does  he  bully  you?  " 
"  Not  to  say  bully,"  she  said.     "  He  struck  me 
once,  but  never  again." 

"  Tell  me  if  he  does  it  again." 

A  small,  sly,  admirative  look  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  We'll  see,"  she  said. 

Frank  was  conscious  of  a  considerable  sense  of 
disappointment  The  thing  had  been  almost  touch- 
ing just  now,  as  the  reserve  first  broke  up,  but  it 
was  a  very  poor  little  soul,  it  seemed  to  him,  that 
had  at  last  made  its  appearance.  (He  did  not  yet  see 
that  that  made  it  all  the  more  touching.)  He  did 
not  quite  see  what  to  do  next.  He  was  Christian 
enough  to  resent  the  whole  affair;  but  he  was  aris- 
tocratic enough  in  his  fastidiousness  to  think  at  this 
moment  that  perhaps  it  did  not  matter  much  for 
people  of  this  sort.  Perhaps  it  was  the  highest 
ideal  that  persons  resembling  the  Major  and  Gertie 
could  conceive.  But  her  next  remark  helped  to 
break  up  his  complacency. 

"  You're  a  Catholic,"  she  said.  "  People  say  that 
you  Catholics  don't  mind  this  kind  of  thing  —  me 
and  the  Major,  I  mean." 

There  was  a  dreadful  sort  of  sly  suggestiveness 
about  this  remark  that  stung  him.  He  exploded; 
and  his  wounded  pride  gave  him  bitterness. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  101 

"  My  good  girl,"  he  said,  "  Catholics  simply  loathe 
it.  And  even,  personally,  I  think  it's  beastly." 

"Well  — I     .     .     ."' 

"  I  think  it's  beastly,"  said  Frank  didactically. 
"  A  good  girl  like  you,  well-brought-up,  good  par- 
ents, nice  home,  religious  —  instead  of  which  " — 
he  ended  in  a  burst  of  ironical  reminiscence  — "  you 
go  traveling  about  with  a  — "  he  checked  himself  — 
"  a  man  who  isn't  your  husband.  Why  don't  you 
marry  him?  " 

"  I  can't!  "  wailed  Gertie,  suddenly  stricken  again 
with  remorse;  "his  wife's  alive." 

Frank  jumped.  Somehow  that  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him.  And  yet  how  amazingly  character- 
istic of  the  Major! 

"  Well  —  leave  him,  then!" 

"  I  can't !  "  cried  poor  Gertie.     "  I  can't !     .  •  . 
I  can't!  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

(i) 

awoke  with  a  start  and  opened  his  eyes. 
But  it  was  still  dark  and  he  could  see  nothing. 
So  he  turned  over  on  the  other  side  and  tried  to  go 
to  sleep. 

The  three  of  them  had  come  to  this  little  town 
last  night  after  two  or  three  days'  regular  employ- 
ment ;  they  had  sufficient  money  between  them ;  they 
had  found  a  quite  tolerable  lodging;  they  had  their 
programme,  such  as  it  was,  for  the  next  day  or  so; 
and  —  by  the  standard  to  which  he  had  learned  to 
adjust  himself  —  there  was  no  sort  of  palpable 
cause  for  the  horror  that  presently  fell  on  him.  I 
can  only  conjecture  that  the  origin  lay  within,  not 
without,  his  personality. 

The  trouble  began  with  the  consciousness  that  on 
the  one  side  he  was  really  tired,  and  on  the  other 
that  he  could  not  sleep ;  and,  to  clinch  it,  the  knowl- 
edge that  a  twenty-mile  walk  lay  before  him.  He 
began  to  tell  himself  that  sleep  was  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  will  —  of  will  deliberately  relaxing  atten- 
tion. He  rearranged  his  position  a  little;  shifted 
102 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  103 

his  feet,  fitted  himself  a  little  more  closely  into  the 
outlines  of  the  bed,  thrust  one  hand  under  the  pil- 
low and  bade  himself  let  go. 

Then  the  procession  of  thoughts  began  as  orderly 
as  if  by  signal. 

He  found  himself  presently,  after  enumerating 
all  the  minor  physical  points  of  discomfort  —  the 
soreness  of  his  feet,  the  knobbiness  of  the  bed,  the 
stuffiness  of  the  room  in  which  the  three  were  sleep- 
ing, the  sound  of  the  Major's  slow  snoring  —  be- 
ginning to  consider  the  wisdom  of  the  whole  affair. 
This  was  a  point  that  he  had  not  consciously  yet 
considered,  from  the  day  on  which  he  had  left  Cam- 
bridge. The  impetus  of  his  first  impulse  and  the 
extreme  strength  of  his  purpose  had,  up  to  the  pres- 
ent —  helped  along  by  novelty  —  kept  him  going. 
Of  course,  the  moment  had  to  come  sooner  or  later ; 
but  it  seems  a  little  hard  that  he  was  obliged  to 
face  it  in  that  peculiarly  dreary  clarity  of  mind 
that  falls  upon  the  sleepless  an  hour  or  two  before 
the  dawn. 

For,  as  he  looked  at  it  all  now,  he  saw  it  as  an 
outsider  would  see  it,  no  longer  from  the  point  of 
view  of  his  own  personality.  He  perceived  a  young 
man.  of  excellent  abilities  and  prospects,  sacrific- 
ing these  things  for  an  idea  that  fell  to  pieces  the 
instant  it  \vas  touched.  He  touched  it  now  with  a 
critical  finger,  and  it  did  so  fall  to  pieces ;  there  was, 


104  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

obviously,  nothing  in  it  at  all.  It  was  an  impulse 
of  silly  pride,  of  obstinacy,  of  the  sort  of  romance 
that  effects  nothing.  There  was  Merefield  waiting 
for  him  —  for  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  terms 
could  be  arranged;  there  was  all  that  leisureliness 
and  comfort  and  distinction  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up  and  which  he  knew  well  how  to  use; 
there  was  Jenny;  there  was  his  dog,  his  horse 
there  was,  in  fact,  everything  for  which 
Merefield  stood.  He  saw  it  all  now,  visualized  and 
clear  in  the  dark ;  and  he  had  exchanged  all  this  — 
well  —  for  this  room,  and  the  Major's  company, 
and  back-breaking  toil.  .  .  .  And  for  no  rea- 
son. 

So  he  regarded  all  this  for  a  good  long  while; 
with  his  eyes  closed,  with  the  darkness  round  him, 
with  every  detail  visible  and  insistent,  seen  as  in 
the  cold  light  of  morning  before  colors  reassert 
themselves  and  reconcile  all  into  a  reasonable 
whole. 

"...  I  must  really  go  to  sleep!"  said  Frank 
to  himself,  and  screwed  up  his  eyes  tight. 

There  came,  of  course,  a  reaction  presently,  and 
he  turned  to  his  religion.  He  groped  for  his  rosary 
under  his  pillow,  placed  before  him  (according  to 
the  instructions  given  in  the  little  books)  the  "  Mys- 
tery of  the  Annunciation  to  Mary,"  and  began  the 
"  Our  Father."  .  .  .  Half-way  through  it  he 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  105 

began  all  over  again  to  think  about  Cambridge,  and 
Merefield  and  Jack  Kirkby,  and  the  auction  in  his 
<mn  rooms,  and  his  last  dinner-party  and  the  design 
on  the  menu-cards,  and  what  a  fool  he  was;  and 
when  he  became  conscious  of  the  rosary  again  he 
found  that  he  held  in  his  fingers  the  last  bead  but 
three  in  the  fifth  decade.  He  had  repeated  four  and 
a  half  decades  without  even  the  faintest  semblance 
of  attention.  He  finished  them  hopelessly,  and  then 
savagely  thrust  the  string  of  beads  under  his  pillow 
again;  turned  over  once  more,  rearranged  his  feet, 
wished  the  Major  would  learn  how  to  sleep  like  a 
gentleman;  and  began  to  think  about  his  religion 
in  itself. 

After  all,  he  began  to  say  to  himself,  what  proof 
was  there  —  real  scientific  proof  —  that  the  thing 
was  true  at  all?  Certainly  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
it  that  was  very  convincing  —  there  was  the  curious 
ring  of  assertion  and  confidence  in  it,  there  was  its 
whole  character,  composed  (like  personality)  of 
countless  touches  too  small  to  be  definable;  there 
was  the  definite  evidence  adduced  from  history  and 
philosophy  and  all  the  rest.  But  underneath  all 
that  —  was  there,  after  all,  any  human  evidence  in 
the  world  sufficient  to  establish  the  astounding 
dogmas  that  lay  at  the  root?  Was  it  conceivable 
that  any  such  evidence  could  be  forthcoming? 


io6  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

He  proceeded  to  consider  the  series  of  ancient 
dilemmas  which,  I  suppose,  have  presented  them- 
selves at  some  time  or  another  to  every  reasonable 
being  —  Free-will  and  Predestination ;  Love  and 
Pain;  Foreknowledge  and  Sin;  and  their  compan- 
ions. And  it  appeared  to  him,  in  this  cold,  emo- 
tionless mood,  when  the  personality  shivers,  naked, 
in  the  presence  of  monstrous  and  unsympathetic 
forces,  that  his  own  religion,  as  much  as  every 
other,  was  entirely  powerless  before  them. 

He  advanced  yet  further :  he  began  to  reflect  upon 
the  innumerable  little  concrete  devotions  that  he  had 
recently  learned  —  the  repetition  of  certain  words, 
the  performance  of  certain  actions  —  the  rosary  for 
instance;  and  he  began  to  ask  himself  how  it  was 
credible  that  they  could  possibly  make  any  differ- 
ence to  eternal  issues. 

These  things  had  not  yet  surrounded  themselves 
with  the  atmosphere  of  experience  and  association, 
and  they  had  lost  the  romance  of  novelty;  they  lay 
before  him  detached,  so  to  say,  and  unconvincing. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  during  this  hour  he 
consciously  disbelieved;  he  honestly  attempted  to 
answer  these  questions ;  he  threw  himself  back  upon 
authority  and  attempted  to  reassure  himself  by  re- 
flecting that  human  brains  a  great  deal  more  acute 
.han  his  own  found  in  the  dilemmas  no  final  obsta- 
cles to  faith;  he  placed  himself  under  the  shelter 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  107 

of  the  Church  and  tried  to  say  blindly  that  he  be- 
lieved what  she  believed.  But,  in  a  sense,  he  was 
powerless:  the  blade  of  his  adversary  was  quicker 
than  his  own;  his  will  was  very  nearly  dormant; 
his  heart  was  entirely  lethargic,  and  his  intellect  was 
clear  up  to  a  certain  point  and  extraordinarily 
swift.  .  .  . 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  in  a  pitiable  state;  and 
had  begun  even  to  question  Jenny's  loyalty.  He 
had  turned  to  the  thought  of  her  as  a  last  resort  for 
soothing  and  reassurance,  and  now,  in  the  chilly 
dawn,  even  she  seemed  unsubstantial. 

He  began  by  remembering  that  Jenny  would  not 
live  for  ever;  in  fact,  she  might  die  at  any  moment; 
or  he  might ;  and  he  ended  by  wondering,  firstly, 
whether  human  love  was  worth  anything  at  all,  and, 
secondly,  whether  he  possessed  Jenny's.  He  un- 
derstood now,  with  absolute  certitude,  that  there 
was  nothing  in  him  whatever  which  could  possibly 
be  loved  by  anyone;  the  whole  thing  had  been  a 
mistake,  not  so  much  on  his  part  as  on  Jenny's. 
She  had  thought  him  to  be  something  he  was  not. 
She  was  probably  regretting  already  the  engage- 
ment ;  she  would  certainly  not  fulfill  it.  And  could 
she  possibly  care  for  anyone  who  had  been  such 
an  indescribable  fool  as  to  give  up  Merefield,  and 
his  prospects  and  his  past  and  his  abilities,  and  set 
out  on  this  absurd  and  childish  adventure?  So 


io8  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

once  more  he  came  round  in  a  circle  and  his  misery 
was  complete. 

He  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  sudden  movement  as  the 
train  of  thought  clicked  back  into  its  own  beginning, 
clasped  his  hands  round  his  knees  and  stared  round 
the  room. 

The  window  showed  a  faint  oblong  of  gray  now, 
beyond  where  the  Major  breathed,  and  certain  ob- 
jects were  dingily  and  coldly  visible.  He  perceived 
the  broken-backed  chair  on  which  his  clothes  were 
heaped  —  with  the  exception  of  his  flannel  shirt, 
which  he  still  wore;  he  caught  a  glimmer  of  white 
where  Gertie's  blouse  hung  up  for  an  airing. 

He  half  expected  that  things  would  appear  more 
hopeful  if  he  sat  up  in  bed.  Yet  they  did  not. 
The  sight  of  the  room,  such  as  it  was,  brought  the 
concrete  and  material  even  more  forcibly  upon  him 
—  the  gross  things  that  are  called  Facts.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  were  no  facts  beyond  them. 
These  were  the  bones  of  the  Universe  —  a  stuffy 
bedroom,  a  rasping  flannel  suit,  a  cold  dawn,  a  snor- 
ing in  the  gloom,  and  three  bodies,  heavy  with 
weariness.  .  .  .  There  once  had  been  other 
facts :  Merefield  and  Cambridge  and  Eton  had  once 
existed ;  Jenny  had  once  been  a  living  person  who 
loved  him;  once  there  had  been  a  thing  called  Re- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  109 

ligion.     But     they    existed     no    longer.     He    had 
touched  reality  at  last. 

Frank  drew  a  long,  dismal  sigh;  he  lay  down ;  lie- 
knew  the  worst  now ;  and  in  five  minutes  he  was 
asleep. 


Of  course,  the  thing  wore  away  by  midday,  and 
matters  had  readjusted  themselves.  But  the  effect 
remained  as  a  kind  of  bruise  below  the  surface. 
1 1 1-  was  conscious  that  it  had  once  been  possible  for 
him  to  doubt  the  value  of  everything;  he  was  aware 
that  there  was  a  certain  mood  in  which  nothing 
seemed  worth  while. 

It  was  practically  his  first  experience  of  the  kind, 
and  he  did  not  understand  it.  But  it  did  its  work ; 
and  I  date  from  that  day  a  certain  increased  sort  of 
obstinacy  that  showed  itself  even  more  plainly  in 
his  character.  One  thing  or  the  other  must  be  the 
effect  of  such  a  mood  in  which  —  even  though  only 
for  an  hour  or  two  —  all  things  other  than  physical 
take  on  themselves  an  appearance  of  illusiveness : 
either  the  standard  is  lowered  and  these  things  are 
treated  as  slightly  doubtful;  or  the  will  sets  its  teeth 
and  determines  to  live  by  them,  whether  they  are 


no  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

doubtful  or  not.     And  the  latter  I  take  to  be  the 
most  utter  form  of  faith. 

About  midday  the  twine  round  Frank's  bundle 
broke  abruptly,  and  every  several  article  fell  on  to 
the  road.  He  repressed  a  violent  feeling  of  irrita- 
tion, and  turned  round  to  pick  them  up.  The  Major 
and  Gertie  instinctively  made  for  a  gate  in  the 
hedge,  rested  down  their  bundles  and  leaned  against 
it. 

Frank  gathered  the  articles  —  a  shirt,  a  pair  of 
softer  shoes,  a  razor  and  brush,  a  tin  of  potted  meat, 
a  rosary,  a  small  round  cracked  looking-glass  and  a 
piece  of  lead  piping  —  and  packed  them  once  more 
carefully  together  on  the  bank.  He  tested  his 
string,  knotted  it,  drew  it  tight,  and  it  broke  again. 
The  tin  of  potted  meat  —  like  some  small  intelligent 
animal  —  ran  hastily  off  the  path  and  dived  into  a 
small  drain. 

A  short  cry  of  mirth  broke  from  the  Major,  and 
Gertie  smiled. 

Frank  said  nothing  at  all.  He  lay  down  on  the 
road,  plunged  his  arm  into  the  drain  and  drew  up 
the  potted  meat;  it  had  some  disagreeable-looking 
moist  substance  adhering  to  it,  which  he  wiped  off 
on  to  his  sleeve,  and  then  regretted  having  done  so. 
Again  he  packed  his  things;  again  he  drew  the 
string  tight,  and  again  it  snapped. 


XOXIi  QTllliR  GODS  in 

"  Lord!  man,  don't  be  so  hard  on  it." 

Frank  looked  up  with  a  kind  of  patient  fury. 
His  instinct  was  to  kick  every  single  object  that  lay 
before  him  on  the  path  as  hard  as  possible  in  every 
direction. 

"  Have  you  any  more  string?  "  he  said. 

"  No.  Stick  the  things  in  your  pocket  and  come 
on." 

Frank  made  no  answer.  He  went  to  the  hedge 
and  drew  out  a  long  supple  twig  of  hazel,  stripped  it 
of  its  leaves,  and  once  more  tried,  with  it,  to  tie  up 
his  parcel.  But  the  angle  was  too  acute,  and  just 
as  the  twig  tightened  satisfactorily  it  snapped,  and 
this  time  the  razor  slid  out  sideways  into  a  single 
minute  puddle  that  lay  on  the  path. 

The  Major  snorted  in  mirthful  impatience. 

"  But  — " 

"  Kindly  let  me  alone,"  said  Frank  icily.  "  The 
thing's  got  to  go  like  this,  or  not  at  all." 

He  drew  out  the  razor  from  the  puddle,  opened 
it  and  dried  the  blade  on  his  sleeve.  During  the 
process  Gertie  moved  suddenly,  and  he  looked  up. 
\Yhen  he  looked  down  again  he  perceived  that 
he  had  slit  a  neat  slice  into  the  cloth  of  his 
jacket. 

He  remained  quite  still  for  one  moment.  Then 
he  sat  down  on  the  bank,  and  examined  the  twine 
once  more. 


H2  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

The  Major  began  to  make  slightly  offensive  com- 
ments. Then  Frank  looked  up. 

"  You  can  go  to  hell!  "  he  said  quite  softly,  "  or 
anywhere  else  you  like.  But  I'm  going  to  do  up 
the  bundle  in  my  way  and  not  yours." 

Now  that  is  a  sort  of  parable.  It  really  hap- 
pened, for  it  was  reported  to  a  witness  by  Frank 
himself  exactly  as  I  have  told  it,  and  it  seems  to  me 
a  very  good  little  symbol  of  his  state  of  mind.  It  is 
quite  indefensible,  of  course  —  and  especially  his 
regrettable  language  that  closed  the  interview;  but 
it  gives  a  pleasant  little  glimpse,  I  think,  of  Frank's 
character  just  now,  in  section.  The  things  had  to 
go  in  a  certain  way :  he  saw  no  adequate  reason  to 
change  that  way,  and  ultimately,  of  course,  the 
twine  held.  It  must  have  been  a  great  satisfaction 
to  him. 

(m) 

It  seems  that  Frank  must  have  been  allowed  just 
now  to  sample  several  different  kinds  of  moods,  for 
he  had  a  very  different  kind  of  awakening  a  day  or 
two  later. 

They  had  come  to  some  piece  of  open  country 
that  I  am  unable  to  identify,  and  for  some  reason 
or  other  determined  to  spend  the  night  out  of  doors. 
There  was  a  copse  a  hundred  yards  away  from  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  113 

road,  and  in  the  copse  a  couple  of  small  shelters 
built,  probably,  for  wood-pigeon  shooting.  The 
Major  and  Gertie  took  possession  of  one,  and  Frank 
of  the  other,  after  they  had  supped  in  the  dark  under 
the  beeches. 

Frank  slept  deeply  and  well,  half  waking  once, 
however,  at  that  strange  moment  of  the  night  when 
the  earth  turns  and  sighs  in  her  sleep,  when  every 
cow  gets  up  and  lies  down  again.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  shrill  crowing,  thin  as  a.  bugle,  from 
some  farm-yard  out  of  sight;  then  he  turned  over 
and  slept  again. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  daylight.  He  lay  on  his 
back  looking  at  the  network  of  twigs  overhead,  the 
beech  leaves  beyond,  and  the  sky  visible  only  in 
glimpses  —  feeling  extremely  awake  and  extremely 
content.  Certainly  he  was  a  little  stiff  when  he 
moved,  but  there  was  a  kind  of  interior  contentment 
that  caused  that  not  to  matter. 

After  a  minute  or  two  he  sat  up,  felt  about  for 
his  shoes  and  slipped  them  on.  Then  he  unwound 
the  wrapping  about  his  neck,  and  crept  out  of  the 
shelter. 

It  was  that  strange  pause  before  the  dawn  when 
tin-  light  has  broadened  so  far  as  to  extinguish  the 
stars,  and  to  bring  out  all  the  colors  of  earth  into  a 
cold  deliberate  kind  of  tint.  Everything  was  abso- 


114  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

lutely  motionless  about  him  as  he  went  under  the 
trees  and  came  out  above  the  wide  park-land  of 
which  the  copse  was  a  sort  of  barrier.  The  dew 
lay  soaking  and  thick  on  the  grass  slopes,  but  there 
was  not  yet  such  light  as  to  bring  out  its  sparkle; 
and  everywhere,  dotted  on  the  green  before  him, 
sat  hundreds  of  rabbits,  the  nearest  not  twenty  yards 
away. 

The  silence  and  the  solemnity  of  the  whole 
seemed  to  him  extraordinary.  There  was  not  a 
leaf  that  stirred  —  each  hung  as  if  cut  of  steel; 
there  was  not  a  bird  which  chirped  nor  a  distant 
cock  that  crew;  the  rabbits  eyed  him  unafraid  in 
this  hour  of  truce. 

It  seemed  to  him  like  some  vast  stage  on  to  which 
he  had  wandered  unexpectedly.  The  performance 
of  the  day  before  had  been  played  to  an  end,  the 
night  scene-shifting  was  finished,  and  the  players  of 
the  new  eternal  drama  were  not  yet  come.  An  hour 
hence  they  would  be  all  about :  the  sounds  would 
begin  again ;  men  would  cross  the  field-paths,  birds 
would  be  busy;  the  wind  would  awake  and  the 
ceaseless  whisper  of  leaves  answer  its  talking.  But 
at  present  the  stage  was  clear  —  swept,  washed, 
clean  and  silent. 

It  was  the  solemnity  then  that  impressed  him 
most  —  solemnity  and  an  air  of  expectation.  Yet 
it  was  not  mere  expectation.  There  was  a  sugges- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  115 

tion  of  the  fundamental  and  the  normal,  as  if  per- 
haps movement  and  sound  were,  after  all,  no  better 
than  interruptions;  as  if  this  fixed  poise  of  nature 
were  something  complete  in  itself;  as  if  these  trees 
hung  out  their  leaves  to  listen  to  something  that 
they  could  actually  hear,  as  if  these  motionless  crea- 
tures of  the  woodland  were  looking  upon  something 
that  they  could  actually  see;  as  if  there  were  some 
great  secret  actually  present  and  displayed  in  dead 
silence  and  invisibility  before  those  only  who  pos- 
sessed the  senses  necessary  to  perceive  it. 

It  was  odd  to  regard  life  from  this  standpoint  — 
to  look  back  upon  the  days  and  their  incidents  that 
were  past,  forward  upon  the  days  and  incidents  to 
come.  Again  it  was  possible  for  Frank  to  look 
upon  these  things  as  an  outsider  and  a  deliberate 
critic  —  as  he  had  done  in  the  stuffy  room  of  the 
lodging-house  in  the  town.  Yet  now,  though  he 
was  again  an  outsider,  though  he  was  again  out  of 
the  whirl  of  actual  living,  he  seemed  to  be  looking 
at  things  —  staring  out,  as  he  was,  almost  unsee- 
ingly  at  the  grass  slopes  before  him —  from  exactly 
the  opposite  side.  Then,  they  had  seemed  to  him 
the  only  realities,  these  tangible  physical  things,  and 
all  else  illusion :  now  it  was  the  physical  things  that 
were  illusive,  and  something  else  that  was  real. 
Once  again  the  two  elements  of  life  lay  detached  — 


ii6  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

matter  and  spirit;  but  it  was  as  obviously  now 
spirit  that  was  the  reality  as  it  had  been  matter  a 
day  or  two  before.  It  was  obviously  absurd  to  re- 
gard these  outward  things  on  which  he  looked  as 
anything  but  a  frame  of  something  completely  dif- 
ferent. They  were  too  silent,  too  still,  too  little 
self-sufficient  to  be  complete  in  themselves.  Some- 
thing solid  lay  embraced  within  them.  .  . 

So,  then,  he  stared  and  ruminated,  scarcely  per- 
ceiving that  he  thought,  so  intensely  conscious  was 
he  of  that  of  which  he  thought.  It  was  not  that  he 
understood  anything  of  that  on  which  he  looked;  he 
was  but  aware  that  there  was  something  to  be  un- 
derstood. And  the  trees  hung  rigid  above  him, 
and  the  clear  blue  sky  still  a  hard  stone  beyond 
them,  not  yet  flushed  with  dawn ;  and  the  grass  lay 
before  him,  contracted,  it  seemed,  with  cold,  and 
every  blade  soaked  in  wet ;  and  the  silence  was  pro- 
found. .  .  . 

Then  a  cock  crew,  a  mile  away,  a  thin,  brazen 
cry;  a  rabbit  sat-  up,  then  crouched  and  bolted,  and 
the  spell  faded  like  a  mist. 

Frank  turned  and  walked  back  under  the  trees, 
to  see  if  the  Major  was  awake. 


CHAPTER  V 


AT  71'-  are  arrived  now  at  one  of  those  few  deplor- 
* *  able  incidents  in  Frank's  career,  against 
which  there  is  no  defense.  And  the  painful  thing 
about  it  is  that  Frank  never  seemed  to  think  that 
it  required  any  defense.  He  shows  no  penitence 
for  it  in  his  diary:  and  yet  moralists  are  united  in 
telling  us  that  we  must  never  do  evil  that  good  may 
come.  It  is  only  paralleled  by  his  rash  action  in 
leaving  Cambridge  in  defiance  of  all  advice  and 
good  sense ;  so  far,  that  is  to  say,  as  a  legally  per- 
missible act,  however  foolish,  can  be  paralleled  by 
one  of  actual  crime.  Moralists,  probably,  would 
tell  us,  in  fact,  that  the  first  led  inevitably  to  the  sec- 
ond. 

It  fell  out  in  this  way. 

Once  or  twice  in  his  travels  with  the  Major  he 
had  been  haunted  by  an  uncomfortable  suspicion 
that  this  or  that  contribution  that  the  warrior  made 
to  their  common  table  had  not  been  come  by  hon- 
estly. When  a  gentleman,  known  to  possess  no 
more  than  tenpence.  and  with  a  predilection  to 
117 


nS  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

drink,  leaves  the  shelter  of  a  small  copse,  let  us  say, 
at  seven  o'clock,  and  reappears,  rather  breathless, 
forty  minutes  later  with  a  newly-plucked  fowl  — 
or  even  with  a  fowl  not  plucked  at  all,  and  still 
warm,  or  with  half  a  dozen  eggs;  and,  in  addition, 
issues  out  again  later  in  the  evening  and  returns 
with  a  strong  smell  of  spirits  and  a  watery  eye  —  it 
seems  a  little  doubtful  as  to  whether  he  has  been 
scrupulously  honest.  In  cases  of  this  kind  Frank 
persevered  in  making  some  excuse  for  not  joining 
in  the  festivity :  he  put  it  to  himself  as  being  a  mat- 
ter of  pride;  but  it  is  hard  to  understand  that  it  was 
simply  that  in  a  young  man  who  made  no  scruple  of 
begging  in  cases  of  necessity.  However,  there  it 
was,  and  even  the  Major,  who  began  by  protesting, 
ended  by  acquiescing. 

They  were  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Market  Weighton  when  the  thing  happened  —  I 
cannot  identify  the  exact  spot.  The  situation  was 
as  follows: 

They  had  secured  an  excellent  barn  for  their 
night's  lodging — facing  on  the  road  on  the  out- 
skirts of  a  village.  Behind  them  were  the  farm 
buildings,  and  the  farmer's  household  gone  to  bed. 
The  sun  had  set  and  it  was  dark.  They  had  supped 
sparingly,  of  necessity,  and  had  finished  every  mor- 
sel of  food.  (Frank  had  even  found  himself  me- 


XOXK  OTHER  GODS  119 

chanically  gathering  up  crumbs  on  a  wet  finger.) 
They  had  had  a  bad  week  of  it;  the  corn  was  not 
yet  ready  for  cutting,  and  there  seemed  no  work 
anywhere  for  honest  men.  The  Major's  gloom  had 
become  terrible ;  he  had  even  made  remarks  upon  a 
choice  between  a  workhouse  and  a  razor.  He  had 
got  up  after  supper  and  turned  his  waistcoat  pockets 
inside  out  to  secure  the  last  possible  grains  of  to- 
bacco, and  had  smoked  about  a  quarter  of  a  pipeful 
gathered  in  this  way  without  uttering  one  word. 
He  had  then  uttered  a  short  string  of  them,  had 
seized  his  cap  and  disappeared. 

Frank,  too,  was  even  more  heavy  and  depressed 
than  usual.  The  last  shreds  of  romance  were  gone 
from  his  adventure  long  ago,  and  yet  his  obstinacy 
held  firm.  But  he  found  he  could  not  talk  much. 
He  watched  Gertie  listlessly  as  she,  listless  too,  be- 
gan to  spread  out  nondescript  garments  to  make  a 
bed  in  the  corner.  He  hardly  spoke  to  her,  nor  she 
to  him. 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  sleepy,  when  he  heard 
rather  hurried  steps,  as  of  one  trying  to  run  on  tip- 
toe, coming  up  the  lane,  and  an  instant  later  in 
popped  the  Major. 

"  Put  out  that  damned  light ! "  he  whispered 
sharply. 

The  candle  end  went  out  with  the  swiftness  of 
thought. 


120  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"What's  up?"  Frank  roused  himself  to  ask. 
There  had  been  a  strenuous  look  about  the  face  seen 
an  instant  before  that  interested  him. 

There  was  dead  silence.  Gertie  seemed  frozen 
into  motionlessness  in  her  corner,  almost  as  if  she 
had  had  experience  of  this  kind  of  thing  before. 
Frank  listened  with  all  his  ears;  it  was  useless  to 
stare  into  the  dark :  here  in  this  barn  the  blackness 
was  complete. 

At  first  there  was  no  sound  at  all,  except  a  very 
soft  occasional  scrape  of  a  boot-nail  that  betokened 
that  the  Major  was  seeking  cover  somewhere. 
Then,  so  suddenly  that  he  started  all  over,  Frank 
felt  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  smelt  a  tobacco-laden 
breath.  (Alas!  there  had  been  no  drink  to-night.) 

"  See  here,  Frankie,  my  boy.  ...  I 
I've  got  the  thing  on  me.  .  .  .  What 
shall  I  do  with  it  ?  .  .  .  It's  no  good  chucking 
it  away :  they'd  find  it." 

"  Got  what  ?  "  whispered  Frank. 

"  There  was  a  kid  coming  along  ...  she 
had  a  tin  of  something  ...  I  don't  even  know 
what  it  is.  ...  And  .  .  .  and  she 
screamed  out  and  someone  ran  out.  But  they 
couldn't  spot  me ;  it  was  too  dark." 

"  Hush !  "  whispered  Frank  sharply,  and  the  hand 
tightened  on  his  arm.  But  it  was  only  a  rat  some- 
where in  the  roof. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  121 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"  Frankie  ...  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  take 
it  from  me  ...  and  .  .  .  and  be  off 
somewhere.  We  could  meet  again  later.  .  .  . 
I  ...  I'm  afraid  someone  may  have  spotted 
us  coming  through  the  village  earlier.  They'll 

.     .     they'll  search,  I  expect." 

"  You  can  do  your  own  dirty  work,"  whispered 
Frank  earnestly  through  the  darkness. 

"  Frankie,  my  boy  .  .  .  don't  be  hard  on  a 
poor  devil,  v  .  .  I  .  .  .  I  can't  leave  Ger- 
tie." 

"Well,  hide  it  somewhere." 

"  No  good  —  they'd     .     .     .     Good  God  — !" 

The  voice  was  stricken  into  silence  once  more, 
as  a  light,  hardly  seen  before  it  was  gone  again, 
shone  through  a  crack  in  the  side  of  the  barn. 
Then  there  was  unmistakable  low  talking  some- 
where. 

Frank  felt  the  man,  crouched  at  his  side,  sud- 
denly stand  up  noiselessly,  and  in  that  instant  his 
own  mind  was  made  up. 

"  Give  it  here,  you  fool,"  he  said.     "  Here !  " 

He  felt  a  smooth  flat  and  circular  thing  thrust 
suddenly  into  his  hands  with  a  whisper  that  he  could 
not  catch,  and  simultaneously  he  heard  a  rush  of 
footsteps  outside.  He  had  just  time  to  stuff  the 
thing  inside  his  coat  and  roll  over  as  if  asleep  when 

9 


122  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  door  flew  open,  and  three  or  four  men,  with  a 
policeman  at  their  head,  burst  into  the  barn. 


(n) 

It  would  be  charitable,  I  think,  to  suppress  the 
name  of  the  small  market-town  where  the  trial  was 
held.  The  excellent  magistrates  who  conducted  it 
certainly  did  their  best  under  very  difficult  circum- 
stances; for  what  are  you  to  do  if  a  man  accused  of 
theft  cordially  pleads  guilty?  and  yet,  certainly  it 
would  distress  them  to  hear  of  a  very  obvious  mis- 
carriage of  justice  executed  at  their  hands. 

On  Friday  morning  at  ten  o'clock  the  vehicles 
began  to  arrive  —  the  motor  of  the  country  gentle- 
man, the  dog-cart  of  the  neighboring  rector,  and 
the  brougham  of  the  retired  general.  It  was  the 
General  who  presided. 

The  court-room  was  not  more  dismal  than  court- 
rooms usually  are.  When  I  visited  it  on  my  little 
pilgrimage,  undertaken  a  few  months  ago,  it  had 
been  repainted  and  the  woodwork  grained  to  repre- 
sent oak.  Even  so,  it  was  not  cheering. 

At  the  upper  end,  under  one  of  the  windows, 
were  ranged  five  seats  on  a  dais,  with  a  long  baize- 
covered  table  before  them.  Then,  on  a  lower  level, 
stood  the  clerk's  and  solicitors'  table,  fenced  by  a 
rail  from  the  vulgar  crowd  who  pressed  in,  hot  and 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  123 

excited,  to  see  the  criminals  and  hear  justice  done. 
There  was  a  case  arising  from  an  ancient  family 
feud,  exploded  at  last  into  crime;  one  lady  had 
thrown  a  clog  at  another  as  the  last  repartee  in  a 
little  dialogue  held  at  street  doors ;  the  clog  had  been 
well  aimed,  and  the  victim  appeared  now  with  a 
very  large  white  bandage  under  her  bonnet,  to  give 
her  testimony.  This  swelled  the  crowd  beyond  its 
usual  proportions,  as  both  ladies  were  well  known 
in  society. 

The  General  was  a  kindly-looking  old  man 
(Frank  recognized  his  name  as  soon  as  he  heard  it 
that  morning,  though  he  had  never  met  him  before) 
and  conversed  cheerily  with  his  brother  magistrates 
as  they  took  their  seats.  The  Rector  was  —  well, 
like  other  rectors,  and  the  Squire  like  other  squires. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  twelve  before  the  ladies' 
claims  were  adjusted.  They  were  both  admonished 
in  a  paternal  kind  of  way,  and  sent  about  their  busi- 
ness, since  there  was  disputed  evidence  as  to  whether 
or  not  the  lady  with  the  bandage  had  provoked  the 
attack,  not  only  by  her  language,  but  by  throwing 
a  banana-skin  at  the  lady  without  the  bandage. 
They  were  well  talked  to,  their  husbands  were  bid- 
den to  keep  them  in  order,  and  they  departed,  both 
a  little  crestfallen,  to  discuss  the  whole  matter  over 
a  pint  of  beer. 


124  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

There  was  a  little  shifting  about  in  court;  a  po- 
liceman, looking  curiously  human  without  his  hel- 
met, pushed  forward  from  the  door  and  took  his 
place  by  the  little  barrier.  The  magistrates  and 
the  clerk  and  the  inspector  all  conferred  a  little  to- 
gether, and  after  an  order  or  two,  the  door  near  the 
back  of  the  court  leading  from  the  police-cells 
opened,  and  Frank  stepped  forward  into  the  dock, 
followed  by  another  policeman  who  clicked  the  bar- 
rier behind  the  prisoner  and  stood,  waiting,  like 
Rhadamanthus.  Through  the  hedge  of  the  front 
row  of  the  crowd  peered  the  faces  of  Gertie  and 
the  Major. 

We  need  not  bother  with  the  preliminaries  —  in 
fact,  I  forget  how  they  ran  —  Frank  gave  his  name 
of  Frank  Gregory,  his  age  as  twenty-two  years,  his 
occupation  as  casual  laborer,  and  his  domicile  as  no 
fixed  abode. 

The  charge  was  read  to  him.  It  was  to  the  ef- 
fect that  he,  on  the  night  of  Tuesday,  the  twenty  - 
third  instant,  had  in  the  village  (whose  name  I 
choose  to  forget,  if  I  ever  knew  it),  seized  from 
Maggie  Cooper,  aged  nine  years,  a  tin  of  preserved 
salmon,  with  intent  to  steal.  The  question  put  to 
the  prisoner  was:  Did  he  or  did  he  not  plead 
guilty  ? 

"  I  plead  guilty,  sir,"  said  Frank,  without  a 
tremor. 


XOXK  OTHER  GODS  125 

He  had  been  two  full  days  in  the  cells  by  now, 
and  it  had  not  improved  his  appearance.  He  was 
still  deeply  sunburned,  but  he  was  a  little  pale  under 
the  eyes,  and  he  was  unshaven.  He  had  also  delib- 
erately rumpled  his  hair  and  pulled  his  clothes  to 
make  them  look  as  untidy  as  possible.  He  answered 
in  a  low  voice,  so  as  to  attract  as  little  attention  as 
possible.  He  had  given  one  quick  look  at  the  mag- 
istrates as  he  came  in,  to  make  sure  he  had  never 
met  them  out  shooting  or  at  dinner-parties,  and  he 
had  been  deeply  relieved  to  find  them  total  strangers. 

"  You  plead  guilty,  eh  ? "  said  the  General. 

Frank  nodded.  , 

"  Well,  well!  let's  hear  the  whole  story.  Where 
is  the  complainant?" 

A  rather  pale  and  awe-stricken  child  appeared 
somewhere  in  a  little  box  opposite  Frank,  with  a 
virtuous  mother  in  black  silk  behind  her.  It  ap- 
peared that  this  child  was  on  her  way  to  her  aunt  — 
her  father  was  a  grocer  —  with  a  tin  of  salmon 
that  had  been  promised  and  forgotten  (that  was 
how  she  came  to  be  out  so  late).  As  she  reached 
the  corner  by  Barker's  Lane  a  man  had  jumped  at 
her  and  seized  the  tin.  (No;  he  had  not  used  any 
other  violence.)  She  had  screamed  at  the  top  of 
her  voice,  and  Mrs.  Jennings'  door  had  opened. 
Then  the  man  had  run  away. 

"  Had    she    seen    the   man   clearly  ? "     No,   she 


126  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

hadn't  seen  him  at  all;  she  had  just  seen  that  he 
was  a  man.  ("  Called  himself  one,"  put  in  a 
voice. )  The  witness  here  cast  an  indignant  —  al- 
most vindictive  —  look  at  Frank. 

Then  a  few  corroborations  were  issued.  Mrs. 
Jennings,  a  widow  lady,  keeping  house  for  her 
brother  who  was  a  foreman  in  Marks'  yard,  ratified 
the  statement  about  the  door  being  opened.  She 
was  going  to  shut  up  for  the  night  when  she  heard 
the  child  scream.  Her  brother,  a  severe-looking 
man,  with  a  black  beard,  finished  her  story.  He 
had  heard  his  sister  call  out,  as  he  was  taking  off 
his  boots  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  he  had  run  out 
with  his  laces  dangling,  in  time  to  see  the  man  run 
past  the  public-house  fifty  yards  up  the  street.  No 
.  .  .  he,  too,  had  not  seen  the  man  clearly,  but 
he  had  seen  him  before,  in  company  with  another; 
the  two  had  come  to  his  yard  that  afternoon  to  ask 
for  work  and  been  refused,  as  they  wanted  no  more 
hands. 

"  Well,  what  had  happened  then  ?  " 

He  had  hammered  at  two  or  three  doors  as  he  ran 
past,  among  them  that  of  the  police-constable,  and 
himself  had  run  on,  in  time  to  hear  the  prisoner's 
footsteps  run  up  the  lane  leading  to  the  barn.  He 
had  stopped  then  as  he  was  out  of  breath,  and  as 
he  thought  they  would  have  the  man  now,  since 
there  was  no  exit  from  the  lane  except  through  Mr. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  127 

Patten's  farm-yard,  and  if  he'd  gone  that  way  they'd 
have  heard  the  dogs. 

Finally  the  police-constable  corroborated  the  en- 
tire story,  and  added  that  he,  in  company  with  the 
foreman  and  two  other  men,  had  "  proceeded  "  to 
the  barn  immediately,  and  there  had  found  the  pris- 
oner, who  was  pretending  to  be  asleep,  with  the  tin 
of  salmon  (produced  and  laid  on  the  table)  hidden 
inside  his  jacket.  He  had  then  taken  him  into  cus- 
tody. 

"  Was  there  any  one  else  in  the  barn  ?  " 
Yes  —  two  persons,  who  gave  the  names  of 
George  and  Gertie  Trustcott.  These  were  prepared 
to  give  evidence  as  to  the  prisoner's  identity,  and 
as  to  his  leaving  and  returning  to  the  barn  on  the 
evening  in  question,  if  the  magistrate  wished. 
.  .  .  Yes;  they  were  present  in  court. 

The  General  began  to  turn  a  little  testy  as  the 
constable  finished.  He  seemed  a  magistrate  who 
liked  to  be  paternal,  and  he  appeared  to  grow  im- 
patient under  the  extraordinarily  correct  language 
of  the  policeman. 

He  turned  to  Frank  —  seeming  to  forget  all 
about  the  two  witnesses  not  yet  called  —  and  spoke 
rather  sharply : 

"  You  don't  deny  all  that  ?  You  plead  guilty, 
eh?" 


128  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Frank,  gazing  at  the  very  pink 
salmon  emblazoned  on  the  tin. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?  " 

"  I  was  hungry,  sir." 

"  Hungry,  eh  ?  An  able-bodied  lad  like  you  ? 
Can't  you  work,  then?  " 

"  When  I  can  get  it,  sir,"  said  Frank 

"Eh?  .  .  .  eh?  Well,  that's  true  enough. 
You  couldn't  get  it  that  day,  anyhow.  Mr.  What's- 
his-name's  told  us  that." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Then  the  Rector  leaned  forward  swiftly  —  to 
Frank's  horror. 

"  You  speak  like  an  educated  man." 

"  Do  I,  sir?     I'm  very  pleased  to  hear  it." 

There  was  a  faint  snigger  in  court. 

"  Where  were  you  educated?  "  persisted  the  Rec- 
tor. 

"  Am  I  bound  to  incriminate  myself,  sir?  " 

"Incriminate?"  said  the  General  suddenly  in- 
terested. "  Eh?  you  mean,  after  a  good  education. 
I  see.  No,  of  course  you're  not,  my  lad." 

"  Thank  you,  sir." 

"  And  you  plead  guilty  ?  And  you'd  like  the 
case  dealt  with  now  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  sir." 

The  clerk  rose  swiftly  in  his  place  and 'began  to 
whisper  to  the  magistrates  behind  his  hand.  Frank 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  129 

understood  perfectly  what  was  happening;  lie  un- 
derstood that  it  was  doubtful  whether  or  no  his  case 
could  be  dealt  with  in  this  court.  He  exploded 
within  himself  a  violent  adjuration  to  the  Supreme 
Authorities,  and  the  next  instant  the  General  sat 
back. 

"  Nonsense !  nonsense !  It  isn't  highway  robbery 
at  all  within  the  meaning  of  the  term.  We'll  deal 
with  it  now  —  eh,  gentlemen?" 

There  was  a  little  more  whispering,  and  finally 
the  General  settled  himself  and  took  up  a  quill  pen. 

"  Well,  we'll  deal  with  it  now,  my  lad,  as  you 
wish.  I'm  sorry  to  see  a  fellow  like  you  in  this 
position  —  particularly  if  you've  had  a  good  edu- 
cation, as  you  seem  to  have  had.  Cowardly  thing, 
you  know,  to  attack  a  child  like  that,  isn't  it?  even 
if  you  were  hungry.  You  ought  to  be  more  hardy 
than  that,  you  know  —  a  great  fellow  like  you  — 
than  to  mind  a  bit  of  hunger.  Boys  like  you  ought 
to  enlist;  that'd  make  a  man  of  you  in  no  time. 
But  no.  ...  I  know  you ;  you  won't. 
You'd  sooner  loaf  about  and  pick  up  what  you  can 
—  sooner  than  serve  His  Majesty.  Well,  well, 
there's  no  compulsion  —  not  yet;  but  you  should 
think  over  it.  Come  and  see  me,  if  you  like,  when 
you've  done  your  time,  and  we'll  see  what  can  be 
done.  That'd  be  better  than  loafing  about  and  pick- 
ing up  tins  of  salmon,  eh? 


130  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Well,  I've  no  more  to  say.     But  you  just  think 
over  it.     And  we'll  give  you  fourteen  days." 

Then  as  Frank  went  out  he  saw  the  three  magis- 
trates lean  back  in  conversation. 


(m) 

I  find  it  very  hard  to  explain,  even  to  myself,  the 
extraordinary  depression  that  fell  upon  Frank  dur- 
ing his  fourteen  days.  He  could  hardly  bear  even 
to  speak  of  it  afterwards,  and  I  find  in  his  diary  no 
more  than  a  line  or  two,  and  those  as  bald  as  possi- 
ble. Apparently  it  was  no  kind  of  satisfaction  to 
him  to  know  that  the  whole  thing  was  entirely  his 
own  doing,  or  that  it  was  the  thought  of  Gertie 
that  had  made  him,  in  the  first  instance,  take  the 
tin  from  the  Major.  Yet  it  was  not  that  there  was 
any  sense  of  guilt,  or  even  of  mistake.  One  would 
have  thought  that  from  everybody's  point  of  view, 
and  particularly  Gertie's,  it  would  be  an  excellent 
thing  for  the  Major  to  go  to  prison  for  a  bit.  It 
would  certainly  do  him  no  harm,  and  it  would  be  a 
real  opportunity  to  separate  the  girl  from  his  com- 
pany. As  for  any  wrong  in  his  pleading  guilty,  he 
defended  it  (I  must  say,  with  some  adroitness)  by 
saying  that  it  was  universally  acknowledged  that  the 
plea  of  "  Not  Guilty  "  is  merely  formal,  and  in  no 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  131 

way  commits  one  to  its  intrinsic  truth  (and  he  is 
right  there,  at  least  according  to  Moral  Theology 
as  well  as  common  sense)  and,  therefore,  that  the 
alternative  plea  is  also  merely  formal. 

And  yet  he  was  depressed  by  his  fourteen  days  to 
the  verge  of  melancholia. 

There  are  several  contributory  causes  that  may  be 
alleged. 

First,  there  is  the  extreme  ignominy  of  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, beginning  with  the  paternal  scolding  in 
court,  in  the  presence  of  grocers  and  persons  who 
threw  clogs,  continuing  with  the  dreary  journey 
by  rail,  in  handcuffs,  and  the  little  crowds  that  gath- 
ered to  laugh  or  stare,  and  culminating  with  the  de- 
tails of  the  prison  life.  It  is  not  pleasant  for  a 
cleanly  man  to  be  suspected  of  dirt,  to  be  bathed 
and  examined  all  over  by  a  man  suffering  himself 
apparently  from  some  species  of  eczema;  it  is  not 
pleasant  to  be  ordered  about  peremptorily  by  uni- 
formed men,  who,  three  months  before,  would  have 
touched  their  hats  to  you,  and  to  have  to  do  things 
instantly  and  promptly  for  the  single  reason  that 
one  is  told  to  do  them. 

Secondly,  there  was  the  abrupt  change  of  life  — 
of  diet,  air  and  exercise. 

Thirdly,  there  was  the  consideration,  the  more 
terrible  because  the  more  completely  unverifiable,  as 
to  what  difference  all  this  would  make,  not  only  to 


132  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  regard  of  his  friends  for  him,  but  to  his  own  re- 
gard for  himself.  Innocence  of  a  fault  does  not 
entirely,  do  away  with  the  distress  and  stigma  of  its 
punishment.  He  imagined  himself  telling  Jenny; 
he  tried  to  see  her  laughing,  and  somehow  he  could 
not.  It  was  wholly  uncharacteristic  of  all  that  he 
knew  of  her;  and  yet  somehow,  night  after  night, 
as  the  hours  dragged  by,  he  seemed  to  see  her  look- 
ing at  him  a  little  contemptuously. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  almost  heard  her  say,  "  if  you 
didn't  do  it,  you  made  a  friend  of  a  man  who  did. 
And  you  were  in  prison." 

Oh !  there  are  countless  excellent  explanations  of 
his  really  terrible  depression ;  and  yet  somehow  it 
does  not  seem  to  me  at  all  in  line  with  what  I  know 
of  Frank,  to  think  that  they  explain  it  in  the  least. 
I  prefer  to  believe,  with  a  certain  priest  who  will 
appear  by  and  by,  that  the  thing  was  just  one  stage 
of  a  process  that  had  to  be  accomplished,  and  that 
if  it  had  not  come  about  in  this  way,  it  must  have 
come  about  in  another.  As  for  his  religion,  all 
emotional  grasp  of  that  fled,  it  seemed  finally,  at 
the  touch  of  real  ignominy.  He  retained  the  intel- 
lectual reasons  for  which  he  had  become  a  Catholic; 
but  the  thing  seemed  as  apart  from  him  as  his 
knowledge  of  law  —  such  as  it  was  —  acquired  at 
Cambridge,  or  his  proficiency  in  lawn-tennis.  Cer- 


NONK  OT1IKU  (.iOUS  133 

tainly  it  was  no  kind  of  consolation  to  him  to  reflect 
on  the  sufferings  of  Christian  martyrs! 

It  was  a  Friday  evening  when  he  came  out  and 
went  quickly  round  the  corner  of  the  jail,  in  order 
to  get  away  from  any  possibility  of  being  identified 
with  it. 

He  had  had  a  short  interview  with  the  Governor 

—  a    very  conscientious   and   religious   man,   who 
made  a  point  of  delivering  what  he  called  "  a  few 
earnest  words  "  to  every  prisoner  before  his  release. 
But,  naturally  enough,   they  were  extraordinarily 
off  the  point.     It  was  not  helpful  to  Frank  to  have 
it  urged  upon  him  to  set  about  an  honest  livelihood 

—  it  was  what  he  had  tried  to  do  every  day  since 
June  —  and  not  to  go  about  robbing  innocent  chil- 
dren of  things  like  tins  of  salmon  —  it  was  the  very 
last  thing  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  doing. 

He  had  also  had  more  than  one  interview  with  the 
chaplain  of  the  Established  Church,  in  consequence 
of  his  resolute  refusal  to  acknowledge  any  religious 
body  at  all  (he  had  determined  to  scotch  this  possi- 
ble clue  to  his  identification)  ;  and  those  interviews 
had  not  been  more  helpful  than  any  other.  It  is 
not  of  much  use  to  be  entreated  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf  when  you  see  no  kind  of  reason  for  doing  so; 
and  little  books  left  tactfully  in  your  cell,  directed 


i34  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

to  the  same  point,  are  equally  useless.  Frank  read 
them  drearily  through.  He  did  not  actually  kick 
them  from  side  to  side  of  his  cell  when  he  had  fin- 
ished; that  would  have  been  offensive  to  the  excel- 
lent intentions  of  the  reverend  gentleman.  .  ,  . 
Altogether  I  do  not  quite  like  to  picture  Frank 
as  he  was  when  he  came  out  of  jail,  and  hurried 
away.  It  is  such  a  very  startling  contrast  with  the 
gayety  with  which  he  had  begun  his  pilgrimage. 

He  had  had  plenty  of  time  to  think  over  his  plans 
during  the  last  fortnight,  and  he  went,  first,  straight 
to  the  post-office.  The  Governor  had  given  him 
half-a-crown  to  start  life  with,  and  he  proposed  to 
squander  fourpence  of  it  at  once  in  two  stamps,  two 
sheets  of  paper  and  two  envelopes. 

His  first  letter  was  to  be  to  Jack;  the  second  to 
Major  Trustcott,  who  had  thoughtfully  given  him 
the  address  where  he  might  be  found  about  that 
date. 

But  there  were  to  be  one  or  two  additional  diffi- 
culties first. 

He  arrived  at  the  post-office,  went  up  the  steps 
and  through  the  swing  doors.  The  place  had  been 
newly  decorated,  with  a  mahogany  counter  and 
light  brass  lattice  rails,  behind  which  two  young 
ladies  of  an  inexpressibly  aristocratic  demeanor  and 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  135 

appearance  were  engaged  in  conversation:  their 
names,  as  he  learned  from  a  few  sentences  he  lis- 
tened to  before  daring  to  interrupt  so  high  a  collo- 
quy, were  Miss  Mills  and  Miss  Jamieson. 

After  a  decent  and  respectful  pause  Frank  ven- 
tured on  his  request. 

"  Two  stamps,  two  sheets  of  paper  and  two  en- 
velopes, please  .  .  .  miss."  (He  did  manage 
that!) 

Miss  Mills  continued  her  conversation : 

"  So  I  said  to  her  that  that  would  never  do,  that 
Harold  would  be  sure  to  get  hold  of  it,  and  that 
then—" 

Frank  shuffled  his  feet  a  little.  Miss  Mills  cast 
him  a  high  glance. 

" —  There'd  be  trouble,  I  said,  Miss  Jamieson." 

"  You  did  quite  right,  dear." 

"  Two  stamps,  two  sheets  of  paper  and  two  en- 
velopes, please,  miss."  He  clicked  four  pence  to- 
gether on  the  counter.  Miss  Mills  rose  slowly  from 
her  place,  went  a  yard  or  two,  and  took  down  a 
large  book.  Frank  watched  her  gratefully.  Then 
she  took  a  pen  and  began  to  make  entries  in  it. 

"  Two  stamps,  two  sheets  of  paper  and  two  en- 
velopes, please." 

Frank's  voice  shook  a  little  with  anger.  He  had 
not  learned  his  lesson  yet. 


136  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Miss  Mills  finished  her  entry;  looked  at  Frank 
with  extreme  disdain,  and  finally  drew  out  a  sheet 
of  stamps. 

"  Pennies  ?  "  she  inquired  sharply. 

"  Please." 

Two  penny  stamps  were  pushed  across  and  two 
pennies  taken  up. 

"  And  now  two  sheets  of  paper  and  two  en- 
velopes, please,  miss,"  went  on  Frank,  encouraged. 
He  thought  himself  foolish  to  be  angry.  Miss 
Jamieson  uttered  a  short  laugh  and  glanced  at  Miss 
Mills.  Miss  Mills  pursed  her  lips  together  and  took 
up  her  pen  once  more. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  give  me  what  I 
ask  for,  at  once,  please?  " 

The  whole  of  Frank  blazed  in  this  small  sentence ; 
but  Miss  Mills  was  equal  to  it. 

"  You  ought  to  know  better,"  she  said,  "  than  to 
come  asking  for  such  things  here !  Taking  up  a  lot 
of  time  like  that." 

"You  don't  keep  them?" 

Miss  Mills  uttered  a  small  sound.  Miss  Jamie- 
son  tittered. 

"  Shops  are  the  proper  places  for  writing-paper. 
This  is  a  post-office." 

Words  cannot  picture  the  superb  high  breeding 
shown  in  this  utterance.  Frank  should  have  under- 
stood that  he  had  been  guilty  of  gross  impertinence 


NONI-.  UT11KR  GODS  137 

in  asking  such  things  of  Miss  Mills;  it  was  treating 
her  almost  as  a  shop-girl.  But  he  was  extremely 
angry  by  now. 

"  Then  why  couldn't  you  have  the  civility  to  tell 
me  so  at  once  ?  " 

Miss  Jamieson  laid  aside  a  little  sewing  she  was 
engaged  on. 

"  Look  here,  young  man,  you  don't  come  bullying 
and  threatening  here.  I'll  have  to  call  the  police- 
man if  you  do.  ...  I  was  at  the  railway  sta- 
tion last  Friday  week,  you  know." 

Frank  stood  still  for  one  furious  instant.  Then 
his  heart  sank  and  he  went  out  without  a  word. 

The  letters  got  written  at  last,  late  that  evening,  in 
the  back  room  of  a  small  lodging-house  where  he 
had  secured  a  bed.  I  have  the  one  he  wrote  to 
Jack  before  me  as  I  write,  and  I  copy  it  as  it  stands. 
It  was  without  address  or  date. 

"  DEAR  JACK, 

"  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me.  I 
want  you  to  go  to  Merefield  and  see,  first,  Jenny, 
and  then  my  father ;  and  tell  them  quite  plainly  and 
simply  that  I've  been  in  prison  for  a  fortnight.  I 
want  Jenny  to  know  first,  so  that  she  can  think  of 
what  to  say  to  my  father.  The  thing  I  was  sent 

to  prison  for  was  that  I  pleaded  guilty  to  stealing 
10 


138  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  tin  of  salmon  from  a  child  called  Mary  Cooper. 
You  can  see  the  account  of  the  case  in  the  County 
Gazette  for  last  Saturday  week,  the  twenty-seventh. 
The  thing  I  really  did  was  to  take  the  tin  from 
somebody  else  I  was  traveling  with.  He  asked 
me  to. 

"  Next,  I  want  you  to  send  on  any  letters  that 
may  have  come  for  me  to  the  address  I  enclose  on 
a  separate  piece  of  paper.  Please  destroy  the  ad- 
dress at  once ;  but  you  can  show  this  letter  to  Jenny 
and  give  her  my  love.  You  are  not  to  come  and 
see  me.  If  you  don't,  I'll  come  and  see  you  soon. 

"  Things  are  pretty  bad  just  now,  but  I'm  going 
to  go  through  with  it. 

"  Yours, 

"F. 

"  P.S. —  By  the  way,  please  address  me  as  Mr.  F. 
Gregory  when  you  write." 

He  was  perfectly  obstinate,  you  understand,  still. 

Frank's  troubles  as  regards  prison  were  by  no 
means  exhausted  by  his  distressing  conversation 
with  the  young  ladies  in  the  post  office,  and  the 
next  one  fell  on  him  as  he  was  leaving  the  little  town 
early  on  the  Saturday  morning. 

He  had  just  turned  out  of  the  main  street  and 
was  going  up  a  quiet  side  lane  that  looked  as  if  it 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  130, 

would  lead  to  the  York  Road,  when  he  noticed  a 
disagreeable  little  scene  proceeding  up  a  narrow 
cul-de-sac  across  whose  mouth  he  was  passing. 

A  tall,  loose-limbed  young  man,  in  his  working- 
clothes,  obviously  slightly  excited  with  drink,  had 
hold  of  a  miserable  old  man  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  with  one  hand,  and  was  cuffing  him  with  the 
other. 

X<)\\  I  do  not  wish  to  represent  Frank  as  a  sort 
of  knight-errant,  but  the  fact  is  that  if  anyone  with 
respectable  and  humane  ideas  goes  on  the  tramp  ( I 
have  this  from  the  mouth  of  experienced  persons) 
he  has  to  make  up  his  mind  fairly  soon  either  to 
be  a  redresser  of  wrongs  or  to  be  conveniently  short- 
sighted. Frank  was  not  yet  sufficiently  experi- 
enced to  have  learned  the  wisdom  of  the  second 
alternative. 

He  went  straight  up  the  cul-de-sac  and  without 
any  words  at  all  hit  the  young  man  as  hard  as  pos- 
sible under  the  ear  nearest  to  him. 

There  seems  to  have  been  a  moment  of  amazed 
silence;  the  young  man  dropped  the  old  one,  who 
fled  out  into  the  lane,  and  struck  back  at  Frank, 
who  parried.  Simultaneously  a  woman  screamed 
somewhere;  and  faces  began  to  appear  at  windows 
and  doors. 

It  is  curious  how  the  customs  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
as  well  as  some  of  their  oaths,  seem  to  have  de- 


140  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

scended  to  the  ranks  of  the  British  working-man.  In 
the  old  days  —  as  also  in  prize-fights  to-day  —  it 
was  quite  usual  to  assail  your  adversary  with  in- 
sults as  well  as  with  blows.  This  was  done  now. 
The  young  man,  with  a  torrent  of  imprecations,  de- 
manded who  Frank  thought  he  was,  asked  where 
he  was  coming  to,  required  of  society  in  general 
an  explanation  of  a  stranger's  interfering  between 
a  son  and  a  qualified  father.  There  was  a  murmur 
of  applause  and  dissent,  and  Frank  answered,  with 
a  few  harmless  expletives  such  as  he  had  now 
learned  to  employ  as  a  sort  of  verbal  disguise,  that 
he  did  not  care  how  many  sons  or  fathers  were  in 
question,  that  he  did  not  propose  to  see  a  certain 
kind  of  bully  abuse  an  old  man,  and  that  he  would 
be  happy  to  take  the  old  man's  place.  .  .  . 

Then  the  battle  was  set. 

Frank  had  learned  to  box  in  a  certain  small  saloon 
in  Market  Street,  Cambridge,  and  knew  perfectly 
well  how  to  take  care  of  himself.  He  received 
about  half  the  force  of  one  extremely  hard  blow 
just  on  his  left  cheek-bone  before  he  got  warmed  to 
his  work;  but  after  that  he  did  the  giving  and  the 
loose-limbed  young  man  the  receiving.  Frank  was 
even  scientific;  he  boxed  in  the  American  manner, 
crouching,  with  both  arms  half  extended  (and  this 
seems  to  have  entirely  bewildered  his  adversary) 
and  he  made  no  effort  to  reach  the  face.  He  just 


NONE  OTHKR  CODS  141 

thumped  away  steadily  below  the  spot  where  the 
ribs  part,  and  where  —  a  doctor  informs  me  —  a 
nerve-center,  known  as  the  solar  plexus,  is  situated. 
He  revolved,  too,  with  considerable  agility,  round 
his  opponent,  and  gradually  drew  the  battle  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  side  lane  outside.  He  knew 
enough  of  slum-chivalry  by  now  to  be  aware  that 
if  .1  >ympathizer,  or  sycophant,  of  the  young  man 
happened  to  be  present,  he  himself  would  quite  pos- 
sibly (if  the  friend  happened  to  possess  sufficient 
courage)  suddenly  collapse  from  a  disabling  blow 
on  the  back  of  the  neck.  Also,  he  was  not  sure 
whether  there  was  any  wife  in  the  question;  and 
in  this  case  it  would  be  a  poker,  or  a  broken  bottle, 
held  dagger-wise,  that  he  would  have  to  meet.  And 
he  wished  therefore  to  have  more  room  round  him 
than  the  cul-de-sac  afforded. 

But  there  was  no  need  for  precaution. 

The  young  man  had  begun  to  look  rather  sickly 
under  the  eyes  and  to  hiccup  three  or  four  times  in 
a  distressed  manner;  when  suddenly  the  clamor 
round  the  fight  ceased.  Frank  was  aware  of  a 
shrill  old  voice  calling  out  something  behind  him; 
and  the  next  instant,  simultaneously  with  the  drop- 
ping of  his  adversary's  hands,  he  himself  was  seized 
from  behind  by  the  arms,  and,  writhing,  discerned 
a  blue  sleeve  and  a  gloved  hand  holding  him. 

"  Xow.  what's  all  this?"  said  a  voice  in  his  ear. 


142  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

There  was  a  chorus  of  explanation,  declaring 
that  "  'Alb  "  had  been  set  upon  without  provocation. 
There  was  a  particularly  voluble  woman  with  red 
arms  and  an  exceedingly  persuasive  manner,  who 
advanced  from  a  doorway  and  described  the  inci- 
dent from  her  own  point  of  view.  She  had  been 
hanging  out  the  children's  things,  she  began,  and  so 
forth;  and  Frank  was  declared  the  aggressor  and 
"  'Alb  "  the  innocent  victim. 

Then  the  chorus  broke  out  again,  and  "  'Alb," 
after  another  fit  of  hiccupping,  corroborated  the 
witnesses  in  a  broken  and  pathetically  indignant 
voice. 

Frank  tore  himself  from  one  embracing  arm  and 
faced  round,  still  held  by  the  other. 

"  All  right ;  I  shan't  run  away.  .  '. '.  _ . .  Look 
here;  that's  a  black  lie.  He  was  hitting  that  old 
man.  Where  is  he?  Come  on,  uncle,  and  tell  us 
all  about  it." 

The  old  man  advanced,  his  toothless  face  con- 
torted with  inexplicable  emotion,  and  corroborated 
the  red-armed  woman,  and  the  chorus  generally, 
with  astonishing  volubility  and  emphasis. 

"  You  old  fool !  "  said  Frank  curtly.  "  What  are 
you  afraid  of?  Let's  have  the  truth,  now.  Wasn't 
he  hitting  you  ?  " 

"  He,  he,  he !  "  giggled  the  old  man,  torn  by  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  143 

desire  of  self-preservation  on  one  side  and,  let  us 
hope,  by  a  wish  for  justice  on  the  other.  "  He 
warn't  hittin'  of  me.  He's  my  son,  he  is.  ... 
'Alb  is.  ...  We  were  just  having — " 

"  There !  get  out  of  this,"  said  the  policeman,  re- 
leasing Frank  with  a  shove.  "  We  don't  want  your 
sort  here.  Coming  and  making  trouble.  .  .  . 
Yes;  my  lad.  You  needn't  look  at  me  like  that.  I 
know  you." 

"Who  the  deuce  are  you  talking  to?"  snapped 
Frank. 

"  I  know  who  I'm  talking  to,  well  enough,"  pro- 
nounced the  policeman  judicially.  "  F.  Gregory, 
ain't  it  ?  Now  you  be  off  out  of  this,  or  you'll  be  in 
trouble  again." 

There  was  something  vaguely  kindly  about  the 
man's  manner,  and  Frank  understood  that  he  knew 
very  tolerably  where  the  truth  lay,  but  wished  to 
prevent  further  disturbance.  He  gulped  down  his 
fury.  It  was  no  good  saying  anything;  but  the 
sense  of  the  injustice  of  the  universe  was  very  bit- 
ter. He  turned  away  — 

A  murmur  of  indignation  broke  out  from  the 
crowd,  bidding  the  policeman  do  his  duty. 

And  as  Frank  went  up  the  lane,  he  heard  that 
zealous  officer  addressing  the  court  with  consider- 
able vigor.  But  it  was  very  little  comfort  to  him. 


144  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

He  walked  out  of  the  town  with  his  anger  and  re- 
sentment still  hot  in  his  heart  at  the  indignity  of  the 
whole  affair. 

(v) 

By  the  Sunday  afternoon  Frank  was  well  on  his 
way  to  York. 

It  was  a  heavy,  hot  day,  sunny,  but  with  brood- 
ing clouds  on  the  low  horizons ;  and  he  was  dispirited 
and  tired  as  he  came  at  last  into  a  small,  prim  vil- 
lage street  rather  after  two  o'clock  (its  name,  once 
more,  I  suppress). 

His  possessions  by  now  were  greatly  reduced. 
His  money  had  gone,  little  by  little,  all  through  his 
journey  with  the  Major,  and  he  had  kept  of  other 
things  only  one  extra  flannel  shirt,  a  pair  of  thick 
socks  and  a  small  saucepan  he  had  bought  one  day. 
The  half-crown  that  the  Governor  had  given  him 
was  gone,  all  but  fourpence,  and  he  wanted,  if  pos- 
sible, to  arrive  at  York,  where  he  was  to  meet  the 
Major,  at  least  with  that  sum  in  his  possession. 
Twopence  would  pay  for  a  bed  and  twopence  more 
for  supper. 

Half-way  up  the  street  he  stopped  suddenly.  Op- 
posite him  stood  a  small  brick  church,  retired  by 
a  few  yards  of  turf,  crossed  by  a  path,  from  the 
iron  railings  that  abutted  on  the  pavement;  and  a 
notice-board  proclaimed  that  in  this  church  of  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  145 

Sacred  Heart  mass  was  said  on  Sundays  at  eleven, 
on  holidays  of  obligation  at  nine,  and  on  weekdays 
at  eight-thirty  A.  M.  Confessions  were  heard  on 
Saturday  evenings  and  on  Thursday  evenings  be- 
fore the  first  Friday,  from  eight  to  nine  P.  M.  Cate- 
chism was  at  three  p.  M.  on  Sundays;  and  rosary, 
sermon  and  benediction  at  seven  p.  M.  A  fat  cat, 
looking  as  if  it  were  dead,  lay  relaxed  on  the  grass 
beneath  this  board. 

The  door  was  open  and  Frank  considered  an  in- 
stant. But  he  thought  that  could  wait  for  a  few 
minutes  as  he  glanced  at  the  next  house.  This  was 
obviously  the  presbytery. 

I  rank  had  never  begged  from  a  priest  before, 
and  he  hesitated  a  little  now.  Then  he  went  across 
the  street  into  the  shadow  on  the  other  side,  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  looked.  The  street  was  per- 
fectly empty  and  perfectly  quiet,  and  the  hot  sum- 
mer air  and  sunshine  lay  on  all  like  a  charm.  There 
was  another  cat,  he  noticed,  on  a  doorstep  a  few 
yanl>  away,  and  he  wondered  how  any  living  crea- 
ture in  this  heat  could  possibly  lie  like  that,  face 
coiled  round  to  the  feet,  and  the  tail  laid  neatly 
across  the  nose.  A  dreaming  cock  crooned  heart- 
brokenly  somewhere  out  of  sight,  and  a  little  hot 
breeze  scooped  up  a  feather  of  dust  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  and  dropped  again. 

Even  the  presbytery  looked  inviting  on  a  day  like 


146  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

this.  He  had  walked  a  good  twenty-five  miles  to- 
day, and  the  suggestion  of  a  dark,  cool  room  was 
delicious.  It  was  a  little  pinched-looking  house,  of 
brick,  like  the  church,  squeezed  between  the  church 
and  a  large  grocery  with  a  flamboyant  inscription 
over  its  closed  shutters.  All  the  windows  were 
open,  hung  inside  with  cheap  lace  curtains,  and  pro- 
tected with  dust-screens.  He  pictured  the  cold  food 
probably  laid  out  within,  and  his  imagination 
struck  into  being  a  tall  glass  jug  of  something  like 
claret-cup,  still  half-full.  Frank  had  not  dined  to- 
day. 

Then  he  limped  boldly  across  the  street,  rapped 
with  the  cast-iron  knocker,  and  waited. 

Nothing  at  all  happened. 

Presently  the  cat  from  the  notice-board  appeared 
round  the  corner,  eyed  Frank  suspiciously,  decided 
that  he  was  not  dangerous,  came  on,  walking  deli- 
cately, stepped  up  on  to  the  further  end  of  the  brick 
stair,  and  began  to  arch  itself  about  and  rub  its 
back  against  the  warm  angle  of  the  doorpost. 
Frank  rapped  again,  interrupting  the  cat  for  an 
instant,  and  then  stooped,  down  to  scratch  it  under 
the  ear.  The  cat  crooned  delightedly.  Steps 
sounded  inside  the  house ;  the  cat  stopped  writhing, 
and  as  the  door  opened,  darted  in  noiselessly  with 


XOXK  OTHER  GODS  147 

tail  erect  past  the  woman  who  held  the  door  unin- 
vitingly  half  open. 

She  had  a  thin,  lined  face  and  quick  black  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  asked  sharply,  look- 
ing up  and  down  Frank's  figure  with  suspicion. 
Her  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  the  bruise  on  his 
cheek-bone. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  priest,  please,"  said  Frank. 

"  You  can't  see  him." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Frank,  "  but  I  must  see 
him." 

"  Coming  here  begging !  "  exclaimed  the  woman 
bitterly.  "  I'd  be  ashamed !  Be  off  with  you !  " 

Frank's  dignity  asserted  itself  a  little. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  in  that  tone,  please.  I  am 
a  Catholic,  and  I  wisli  to  see  the  priest." 

The  woman  snorted;  but  before  she  could  speak 
there  came  the  sound  of  an  opening  door  and  a 
quick  step  on  the  linoleum  of  the  little  dark  pas- 
sage. 

"What's  all  this?"  said  a  voice,  as  the  woman 
stepped  back. 

He  was  a  big,  florid  young  man,  with  yellow 
hair,  flushed  as  if  with  sleep;  his  eyes  were  bright 
and  tired-looking,  and  his  collar  was  plainly  unbut- 
toned at  the  back.  Also,  his  cassock  was  unfas- 


148  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

lened  at  the  throat  and  he  bore  a  large  red  handker- 
chief in  his  hand.  Obviously  this  had  just  been 
over  his  face. 

Now  I  do  not  blame  this  priest  in  the  slightest. 
He  had  sung  a  late  mass  —  which  never  agreed  with 
him  —  and  in  his  extreme  hunger  he  had  eaten  two 
plate fuls  of  hot  beef,  with  Yorkshire  pudding,  and 
drunk  a  glass  and  a  half  of  solid  beer.  And  he  had 
just  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep  before  giving  Catechism, 
\vhen  the  footsteps  and  voices  had  awakened  him. 
Further,  every  wastrel  Catholic  that  came  along  this 
road  paid  him  a  call,  and  he  had  not  yet  met  with 
one  genuine  case  of  want.  When  he  had  first  come 
here  he  had  helped  beggars  freely  and  generously, 
and  he  lived  on  a  stipend  of  ninety  pounds  a  year, 
out  of  which  he  paid  his  housekeeper  fifteen. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  said. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you,  father  ?  "  said  Frank. 

"  Certainly.     Say  what  you've  got  to  say." 

"  Will  you  help  me  with  sixpence,  father  ?  " 

The  priest  was  silent,  eyeing  Frank  closely. 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  I  didn't  see  you  at  mass  this  morning." 

"  I  wasn't  here  this  morning.  I  was  walking  on 
the  roads." 

"  Where  did  you  hear  mass  ?  " 


NONE  OT11KK  CODS  149 

"  1  didn't  hear  it  at  all,  father.  I  was  on  the 
roads." 

"  \\ 'hat's  your  work?  " 

"  I  haven't  any." 

"Why's  that?" 

Frank  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little. 

"  I  do  it  when  I  can  get  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  speak  like  an  educated  man." 

"  I  am  pretty  well  educated." 

The  priest  laughed  shortly. 

"  \Yhat's  that  bruise  on  your  cheek?  " 

"  I  was  in  a  street  fight,  yesterday,  father." 

"  Oh,  this  is  ridiculous !  "  he  said.  "  Where 
did  you  come  from  last  ?  " 

Frank  paused  a  moment.  He  was  very  hot  and 
very  tired.  .  .  .  Then  he  spoke. 

"  I  was  in  prison  till  Friday,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
given  fourteen  days  on  the  charge  of  robbing  a 
child,  on  the  twenty-sixth.  I  pleaded  guilty.  Will 
you  help  me,  father?  " 

If  the  priest  had  not  been  still  half  stupid  with 
sleep  and  indigestion,  and  standing  in  the  full  blaze 
of  this  hot  sun,  he  might  have  been  rather  struck 
by  this  last  sentence.  But  he  did  have  those  disad- 
vantages, and  he  saw  in  it  nothing  but  insolence. 

He  laughed  again,  shortly  and  angrily. 

"  I'm  amazed   at   your   cheek,"   he   said.     "  Xo, 


150  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

certainly  not!     And  you'd  better  learn  manners  be- 
fore you  beg  again." 

Then  he  banged  the  door. 

About  ten  minutes  later  he  woke  up  from  a  doze, 
very  wide  awake  indeed,  and  looked  round.  There 
lay  on  the  table  by  him  a  Dutch  cheese,  a  large 
crusty  piece  of  bread  and  some  very  soft  salt  butter 
in  a  saucer.  There  was  also  a  good  glass  of  beer 
left  —  not  claret-cup  —  in  a  glass  jug,  very  much  as 
Frank  had  pictured  it. 

He  got  up  and  went  out  to  the  street  door,  shad- 
ing his  eyes  against  the  sun.  But  the  street  lay  hot 
and  dusty  in  the  afternoon  light,  empty  from  end  to 
end,  except  for  a  cat,  nose  in  tail,  coiled  on  the  gro- 
cery door-step. 

Then  he  saw  two  children,  in  white  frocks,  ap- 
pear round  a  corner,  and  he  remembered  that  it  was 
close  on  time  for  Catechism. 


CHAPTER  VI 

(i) 

A  BOUT  the  time  that  Frank  was  coming  into 
the  village  where  the  priest  lived,  Jenny  had 
just  finished  lunch  with  her  father.  She  took  a 
book,  two  cigarettes,  a  small  silver  matchbox  and 
a  Japanese  fan,  and  went  out  into  the  garden.  She 
had  no  duties  this  afternoon;  she  had  played  the 
organ  admirably  at  the  morning  service,  and  would 
play  it  equally  admirably  at  the  evening  service. 
The  afternoon  devotions  in  the  little  hot  Sunday 
school  —  she  had  decided,  in  company  with  her 
father  a  year  or  two  ago  —  and  the  management 
of  the  children,  were  far  better  left  in  the  profes- 
sional hands  of  the  schoolmistress. 

She  went  straight  out  of  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows, set  wide  and  shaded  by  awnings,  and  across 
the  lawn  to  the  seat  below  the  ancient  yews.  There 
she  disposed  herself,  with  her  feet  up,  lit  a  cigarette, 
buried  the  match  and  began  to  read. 

She  had  not  heard  from  Frank  for  nearly  three 
weeks;  his  last  communication  had  been  a  picture 


152  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

postcard  of  Selby  Abbey,  with  the  initial  "F" 
neatly  printed  at  the  back.  But  she  was  not  very 
greatly  upset.  She  had  written  her  letter  as  she 
had  promised,  and  had  heard  from  Jack  Kirkbv. 
to  whose  care  she  sent  it,  that  he  had  no  idea  of 
Frank's  whereabouts,  and  that  he  would  send  on 
the  letter  as  soon  as  he  knew  more.  She  supposed 
that  Frank  would  communicate  with  her  again  as 
soon  as  he  thought  proper. 

Other  circumstances  to  be  noted  were  that  Dick 
had  gone  back  to  town  some  while  ago,  but  would 
return  almost  immediately  now  for  the  grouse- 
shooting;  that  Archie  and  Lord  Talgarth  were  both 
up  at  the  house  —  indeed,  she  had  caught  sight  of 
them  in  the  red-curtained  chancel-pew  this  morn- 
ing, and  had  exchanged  five  words  with  them 
both  after  the  service  —  and  that  in  all  other  re- 
spects other  things  were  as  they  had  been  a  month 
ago. 

The  Dean  of  Trinity  had  telegraphed  in  great  dis- 
may on  the  morning  following  his  first  communi- 
cation that  Frank  had  gone,  and  that  no  one  had 
the  slightest  idea  of  his  destination;  he  had  asked 
whether  he  should  put  detectives  on  the  track,  and 
had  been  bidden,  in  return,  politely  but  quite  firmly, 
to  mind  his  own  business  and  leave  Lord  Talgarth's 
younger  son  to  Lord  Talgarth. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  153 


It  was  a  sleepy  afternoon,  even  up  here 
the  hills,  and  Jenny  had  not  read  many  pages  be- 
fore she  became  aware  of  it.  The  Rectory  garden 
was  an  almost  perfect  place  for  a  small  doze;  the 
yews  about  her  made  a  grateful  shade,  and  the  limes 
behind  them  even  further  cooled  the  air,  and,  when 
the  breeze  awoke,  as  one  talking  in  his  sleep,  the 
sound  about  her  was  as  of  gentle  rain.  The  air 
was  bright  and  dusty  with  insects;  from  the  limes 
overhead,  the  geranium  beds,  and  the  orchard  fifty 
yards  away,  came  the  steady  murmur  of  bees  and 
flies.  .  .  . 

Jenny  woke  up  twenty  minutes  later  with  a  sud- 
den start,  and  saw  someone  standing  almost  over 
her.  She  threw  her  feet  down,  still  bewildered  by 
the  sudden  change  and  the  glare  on  which  she 
opened  her  eyes,  and  perceived  that  it  was  Jack 
Kirkby,  looking  very  dusty  and  hot. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Jack  apologetically,  "  but 
I  was  told  you  were  out  here." 

She  did  not  know  Jack  very  well,  though  she  had 
known  him  a  long  time.  She  looked  upon  him  as 
a  pleasant  sort  of  boy  whom  she  occasionally  met 
at  lawn-tennis  parties  and  flower  shows,  and  things 
like  that,  and  she  knew  perfectly  how  to  talk  to 
young  men. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  come  over,"  she  said. 
"  Did  you  bicycle?  Have  something  to  drink?  " 


154  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

She  made  room  for  him  on  the  seat  and  held  out 
her  second  cigarette. 

"  It's  your  last,"  said  Jack. 

"  I've  lots  more  in  the  house." 

She  watched  him  as  he  lit  it,  and  as  the  last 
shreds  of  sleep  rolled  away,  put  the  obvious  ques- 
tion. 

"You've  news  of  Frank?" 

Jack  threw  away  the  match  and  drew  two  or 
three  draughts  of  smoke  before  answering. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  He  gave  an  address  at  York,  though  he  wasn't 
there  when  he  wrote.  I  sent  your  letter  on  there 
yesterday." 

"  Oh!  did  he  give  any  account  of  himself?  " 

Jack  looked  at  her. 

"  Well,  he  did.  I've  come  about  that.  It's  not 
very  pleasant." 

"  Is  he  ill  ?  "  asked  Jenny  sharply. 

"  Oh,  no;  not  at  all;  at  least,  he  didn't  say  so." 

"  What's  the  matter,  then?  " 

Jack  fumbled  in  his  breast-pocket  and  drew  out 
a  letter,  which  he  held  a  moment  before  unfolding. 

"  I  think  you'd  better  read  what  he  says,  Miss 
Launton.  It  isn't  pleasant,  but  it's  all  over  now. 
I  thought  I'd  better  tell  you  that  first." 

She  held  out  her  hand  without  speaking. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  155 

Jack  gave  it  her,  and  addressed  himself  carefully 
to  his  cigarette.  He  didn't  like  this  kind  of  thing 
at  all ;  he  wished  Frank  wouldn't  give  him  unpleas- 
ant commissions.  But,  of  course,  it  had  to  be  done. 
He  looked  out  at  the  lawn  and  the  sleepy  house, 
but  was  aware  of  nothing  except  the  girl  beside 
him  in  her  white  dress  and  the  letter  in  her  hands. 
When  she  had  finished  it,  she  turned  back  and  read 
it  again.  Then  she  remained  perfectly  still,  with 
the  letter  held  on  her  knee. 

"  Poor,  dear  old  boy ! "  she  said  suddenly  and 
quietly. 

An  enormous  wave  of  relief  rolled  up  and  envel- 
oped Jack.  He  had  been  exceedingly  uncomfort- 
able this  morning,  ever  since  the  letter  had  come. 
His  first  impulse  had  been  to  ride  over  instantly 
after  breakfast;  then  he  had  postponed  it  till  lunch; 
then  he  had  eaten  some  cold  beef  about  half -past 
twelve  and  come  straight  away.  He  told  himself 
he  must  give  her  plenty  of  time  to  write  by  the  late 
Sunday  night  post. 

He  had  not  exactly  distrusted  Jenny;  Frank's 
confidence  was  too  overwhelming  and  too  infectious. 
But  he  had  reflected  that  it  was  not  a  wholly  pleas- 
ant errand  to  have  to  inform  a  girl  that  her  lover 
had  been  in  prison  for  a  fortnight.  But  the  tone 
in  which  she  had  just  said  those  four  words  was 
so  serene  and  so  compassionate  that  he  was  com- 


156  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

pletely  reassured.  This  really  was  a  fine  creature, 
he  said  to  himself. 

"  I'm  extraordinarily  glad  you  take  it  like  that," 
he  said. 

Jenny  looked  at  him  out  of  her  clear,  direct 
eyes. 

"  You  didn't  suppose  I  should  abuse  him,  did 
you?  .  .  .  How  exactly  like  Frank!  I  sup- 
pose he  did  it  to  save  some  blackguard  or  other." 

"  I  expect  that  was  it,"  said  Jack. 

"  Poor,  dear  old  boy !  "  she  said  again. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Jack  began 
again : 

"  You  see,  I've  got  to  go  and  tell  Lord  Talgarth. 
Miss  Launton,  I  wish  you'd  come  with  me.  Then 
we  can  both  write  by  to-night's  post." 

Jenny  said  nothing  for  an  instant.     Then: 

"  I  suppose  that  would  be  best,"  she  said.  "  Shall 
we  go  up  pretty  soon?  I  expect  we  shall  find  him 
in  the  garden." 

Jack  winced  a  little.     Jenny  smiled  at  him  openly. 

"  Best  to  get  it  over,  Mr.  Jack.  I  know  it's  like 
going  to  the  dentist.  But  it  can't  be  as  bad  as  you 
think.  It  never  is.  Besides,  you'll  have  somebody 
to  hold  your  hand,  so  to  speak." 

"  I  hope  I  shan't  scream  out  loud,"  observed 
Jack.  "  Yes,  we'd  better  go  —  if  you  don't  mind." 

He  stood  up  and  waited.     Jenny  rose  at  once. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  157 

"I'll  go  and  get  a  hat.     Wait  for  me  here,  will 
you?     I  needn't  tell  father  till  this  evening." 


(n) 

The  park  looked  delicious  as  they  walked  slowly 
up  the  grass  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  by  the  side 
of  the  drive.  The  great  beeches  and  elms  rose  in 
towering  masses,  in  clump  after  clump,  into  the  dis- 
tance, and  beneath  the  nearest  stood  a  great  stag 
with  half  a  dozen  hinds  about  him,  eyeing  the  walk- 
ers. The  air  was  very  still;  only  from  over  the 
hill  came  the  sound  of  a  single  church  bell,  where 
some  infatuated  clergyman  hoped  to  gather  the 
lambs  of  his  flock  together  for  instruction  in  the 
Christian  religion. 

"  That's  a  beauty,"  said  Jack,  waving  a  languid 
hand  towards  the  stag.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the 
row  Frank  and  I  got  into  when  we  were  boys?  " 

Jenny  smiled.  She  had  been  quite  silent  since 
leaving  the  Rectory. 

"  I  heard  of  a  good  many,"  she  said.  "  Which 
was  this?  " 

Jack  recounted  a  story  of  Red  Indians  and  am- 
buscades and  a  bow  and  arrows,  ending  in  the  flight 
of  a  frantic  stag  over  the  palings  and  among  the 
garden  beds;  it  was  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  too. 

"  Frank  was  caned  by  the  butler,  I  remember,  by 


158  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Lord  Talgarth's  express  orders.  Certainly  he  richly 
deserved  it.  I  was  a  guest,  and  got  off  clear." 

"How  old  were  you?" 

"  We  were  both  about  eleven,  I  think." 

"  Frank  doesn't  strike  me  as  more  than  about 
twelve  now,"  observed  Jenny. 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  admitted  Jack. 
.  .  .  "  Oh !  Lord !  how  hot  it  is !  "  He  fanned 
himself  with  his  hat. 

There  was  no  sign  of  life  as  they  passed  into  the 
court  and  up  to  the  pillared  portico;  and  at  last, 
when  the  butler  appeared,  the  irregular  state  of  his 
coat-collar  showed  plainly  that  he  but  that  moment 
had  put  his  coat  on. 

(This  would  be  about  the  time  that  Frank  left  the 
village  after  his  interview  with  the  priest.) 

Yes;  it  seemed  that  Lord  Talgarth  was  probably 
in  the  garden;  and,  if  so,  almost  certainly  in  the 
little  square  among  the  yews  along  the  upper  ter- 
race. His  lordship  usually  went  there  on  hot  days. 
Would  Miss  Launton  and  Mr.  Kirkby  kindly  step 
this  way? 

No;  he  was  not  to  trouble.  They  would  find 
their  own  way.  On  the  upper  terrace? 

"  On  the  upper  terrace,  miss." 

The  upper  terrace  was  the  one  part  of  the  old 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  159 

Elizabethan  garden  left  entirely  unaltered.  On 
either  side  rose  up  a  giant  wall  of  yew,  shaped  like 
a  castle  bastion,  at  least  ten  feet  thick ;  and  between 
the  two  ran  a  broad  gravel  path  up  to  the  sun-dial, 
bordered  on  either  side  by  huge  herbaceous  beds, 
blazing  with  the  color  of  late  summer.  In  two  or 
three  places  grass  paths  crossed  these,  leading  by  a 
few  yards  of  turf  to  windows  cut  in  the  hedge  to 
give  a  view  of  the  long,  dazzling  lake  below,  and 
there  was  one  gravel  path,  parallel  to  these,  that  led 
to  the  little  yew-framed  square  built  out  on  the 
slope  of  the  hill. 

Two  very  silent  persons  now  came  out  from  the 
house  by  the  garden  door  on  the  south  side,  turned 
along  the  path,  went  up  a  dozen  broad  steps,  passed 
up  the  yew  walk  and  finally  turned  again  down  the 
short  gravel  way  and  stood  abashed. 

His  lordship  was  indeed  here! 

A  long  wicker  chair  was  set  in  one  angle,  facing 
them,  in  such  a  position  that  the  movement  of  the 
sun  would  not  affect  the  delightful  shade  in  which 
the  chair  stood.  A  small  table  stood  beside  it,  with 
the  Times  newspaper  tumbled  on  to  it,  a  box  of 
cigars,  a  spirit-bottle  of  iridescent  glass,  a  syphon, 
and  a  tall  tumbler  in  which  a  little  ice  lay  crumbled 
at  the  bottom.  And  in  the  wicker  chair,  with  his 
mouth  wide  open,  slept  Lord  Talgarth. 

"  Good  gracious !  "  whispered  Jenny. 


160  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  like  far-off  thun- 
*der  a  slow  meditative  snore.  It  was  not  an  object 
of  beauty  or  dignity  that  they  looked  upon. 

"  In  one  second  I  shall  laugh,"  asserted  Jenny, 
still  in  a  cautious  whisper. 

"  I  think  we'd  better  — "  began  Jack ;  and 
stopped  petrified,  to  see  one  vindictive-looking  eye 
opened  and  regarding  him,  it  seemed,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  extraordinary  malignity.  Then  the 
other  eye  opened,  the  mouth  abruptly  closed  and 
Lord  Talgarth  sat  up. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  " 

He  rolled  his  eyes  about  a  moment  while  intelli- 
gence came  back. 

"  You  needn't  be  ashamed  of  it,"  said  Jenny. 
"  Mr.  Jack  Kirkby  caught  me  at  it,  too,  half  an 
hour  ago." 

His  lordship's  senses  had  not  even  now  quite  re- 
turned. He  still  stared  at  them  innocently  like  a 
child,  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice,  and  finally 
stood  up. 

"Jack  Kirkby,  so  it  is!  How  do,  Jack?  And 
Jenny  ?  " 

"  That's  who  we  are,"  said  Jenny.  "  Are  you 
sure  you're  quite  recovered?" 

"Recovered!  Eh  — !"  (He  emitted  a  short 
laugh.)  "  Sit  down.  There's  chairs  somewhere." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  161 

Jack  hooked  out  a  couple  that  were  leaning  folded 
against  the  low  wall  of  yew  beneath  the  window  and 
set  them  down. 

"  Have  a  cigar,  Jack  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks." 

They  were  on  good  terms  —  these  two.  Jack 
shot  really  well,  and  was  smart  and  deferential. 
Lord  Talgarth  asked  no  more  than  this  from  a 
young  man. 

"Well  — what's  the  matter?" 

Jack  left  it  thoughtfully  for  Jenny  to  open  the 
campaign.  She  did  so  very  adroitly. 

"  Mr.  Jack  came  over  to  see  me,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  thought  I  couldn't  entertain  him  better  than  by 
bringing  him  up  to  see  you.  You  haven't  such  a 
thing  as  a  cigarette,  Lord  Talgarth?  " 

He  felt  about  in  his  pockets,  drew  out  a  case  and 
pushed  it  across  the  table. 

"Thanks,"  said  Jenny;  and  then,  without  the 
faintest  change  of  tone :  "  We've  some  news  of 
Frank  at  last." 

"  Frank,  eh?  Have  you ?  And  what's  the  young 
cub  at,  now  ?  " 

"  He's  in  trouble,  as  usual,  poor  boy !  "  remarked 
Jenny,  genially.  "  He's  very  well,  thank  you,  and 
sends  you  his  love." 

Lord  Talgarth  cast  her  a  pregnant  glance. 


162  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Well,  if  he  didn't,  I'm  sure  he  meant  to,"  went 
on  Jenny ;  "  but  I  expect  he  forgot.  You  see,  he's 
been  in  prison." 

The  old  man  jerked  such  a  face  at  her,  that  even 
her  nerve  failed  for  an  instant.  Jack  saw  her  put 
her  cigarette  up  to  her  mouth  with  a  hand  that 
shook  ever  so  slightly.  And  yet  before  the  other 
could  say  one  word  she  recovered  herself. 

"  Please  let  me  say  it  right  out  to  the  end  first," 
she  said.  "  No ;  please  don't  interrupt !  Mr.  Jack, 
give  me  the  letter  .  .  .  oh !  I've  got  it."  (She 
drew  it  out  and  began  to  unfold  it,  talking  all  the 
while  with  astonishing  smoothness  and  self-com- 
mand.) "  And  I'll  read  you  all  the  important  part. 
It's  written  to  Mr.  Kirkby.  He  got  it  this  morn- 
ing and  very  kindly  brought  it  straight  over  here 
at  once." 

Jack  was  watching  like  a  terrier.  On  the  one 
side  he  saw  emotions  so  furious  and  so  conflicting 
that  they  could  find  no  expression,  and  on  the  other 
a  restraint  and  a  personality  so  complete  and  so  com- 
pelling that  they  simply  held  the  field  and  permitted 
no  outburst.  Her  voice  was  cool  and  high  and  nat- 
ural. Then  he  noticed  her  flick  a  glance  at  him- 
self, sideways,  and  yet  perfectly  intelligible.  He 
stood  up. 

"  Yes,  do  just  take  a  stroll,  Mr.  Kirkby.  .  .  . 
Come  back  in  ten  minutes." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  163 

And  as  he  passed  out  again  through  the  thick 
archway  on  to  the  terrace  he  heard,  in  an  incredibly 
matter-of-fact  voice,  the  letter  begin. 

"  DEAR  JACK.     .     .     ." 

Then  he  began  to  wonder  what,  as  a  matter  of  in- 
terest, Lord  Talgarth's  first  utterance  would  be. 
But  he  felt  he  could  trust  Jenny  to  manage  him. 
She  was  an  astonishingly  sane  and  sensible  girl. 


(m) 

He  was  at  the  further  end  of  the  terrace,  close 
beneath  the  stable  wall,  when  the  stable  clock  struck 
the  quarter  for  the  second  time.  That  would  make, 
he  calculated,  about  seventeen  minutes,  and  he 
turned  reluctantly  to  keep  his  appointment.  But  he 
was  still  thirty  yards  away  from  the  opening  when 
a  white  figure  in  a  huge  white  hat  came  quickly 
out.  She  beckoned  to  him  with  her  head,  and  he 
followed  her  down  the  steps.  She  gave  him  one 
glance  as  if  to  reassure  him  as  he  caught  her  up, 
but  said  not  a  word,  good  or  bad,  till  they  had 
passed  through  the  house  again,  and  were  well  on 
their  way  down  the  drive. 

"Well?  "said  Jack. 

Jenny  hesitated  a  moment. 


164  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  I  suppose  anyone  else  would  have  called  him 
violent,"  she  said.  "  Poor  old  dear!  But  it  seems 
to  me  he  behaved  rather  well  on  the  whole  —  con- 
sidering all  things." 

"  What's  he  going  to  do  ?  " 

"If  one  took  anything  he  said  as  containing  any 
truth  at  all,  it  would  mean  that  he  was  going  to 
flog  Frank  with  his  own  hands,  kick  him  first  up  the 
steps  of  the  house  then  down  again,  and  finally 
drown  him  in  the  lake  with  a  stone  round  his  neck. 
I  think  that  was  the  sort  of  programme." 

"  But  — " 

"Oh!  we  needn't  be  frightened,"  said  Jenny. 
"  But  if  you  ask  me  what  he  will  do,  I  haven't  the 
faintest  idea." 

"  Did  you  suggest  anything?  " 

"  He  knows  what  my  views  are,"  said  Jenny. 

"  And  those  ?  " 

"  Well  —  make  him  a  decent  allowance  and  let 
him  alone." 

"  He  won't  do  that !  "  said  Jack.  "  That's  far 
too  sensible." 

"  You  think  so?  " 

"  That  would  solve  the  whole  problem,  of  course," 
went  on  Jack,  "  marriage  and  everything.  I  sup- 
pose it  would  have  to  be  about  eight  hundred  a  year. 
And  Talgarth  must  have  at  least  thirty  thousand." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  165 

"Oh!  he's  more  than  that,"  said  Jenny.  "He 
gives  Mr.  Dick  twelve  hundred." 

There  was  a  pause.  Jack  did  not  know  what  to 
think.  He  was  only  quite  certain  that  the  thing 
would  have  been  far  worse  if  he  had  attempted  to 
manage  it  himself. 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  say  to  Frank  ?  "  he  asked. 

Jenny  paused  again. 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is 
not  to  write.  I'll  write  myself  this  evening,  if 
you'll  give  me  his  address,  and  explain  — " 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Jack.  "  I'm  awfully 
sorry,  but — " 

"  You  can't  give  me  his  address  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  I  mustn't.  You  see,  Frank's 
very  particular  in  his  letter.  .  .  ." 

"  Then  how  can  I  write  to  him  ?  Mr.  Kirkby, 
you're  really  rather — " 

"  By  George!  I've  got  it!  "  cried  Jack.  "  If  you 
don't  mind  my  waiting  at  the  Rectory.  Why 
shouldn't  you  write  to  him  now,  and  let  me  take  the 
letter  away  and  post  it  ?  It'll  go  all  the  quicker,  too, 
from  Barham." 

He  glanced  at  her,  wondering  whether  she  were 
displeased.  Her  answer  reassured  him. 

"  That'll  do  perfectly,"  she  said,  "  if  you're  sure 
you  don't  mind  waiting." 


i66  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

The  Rectory  garden  seemed  more  than  ever  a 
harbor  from  storm  as  they  turned  into  it.  The  sun 
was  a  little  lower  now,  and  the  whole  lawn  lay  in 
shadow.  As  they  came  to  the  door  she  stopped. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  go  and  get  it  over,"  she  said. 
"  I  can  tell  father  all  about  it  after  you've  gone. 
Will  you  go  now  and  wait  there  ?  "  She  nodded 
towards  the  seat  where  they  had  sat  together  earlier. 

But  it  was  nearly  an  hour  before  she  came  out 
again,  and  a  neat  maid,  in  apron  and  cap,  had  come 
discreetly  out  with  the  tea-things,  set  them  down  and 
retired. 

Jack  had  been  thinking  of  a  hundred  things, 
which  all  centered  round  one — Frank.  He  had  had 
a  real  shock  this  morning.  It  had  been  intolerable 
to  think  of  Frank  in  prison,  for  even  Jack  could 
guess  something  of  what  that  meant  to  him;  and 
the  tone  of  the  letter  had  been  so  utterly  unlike  what 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  from  his  friend.  He 
would  have  expected  a  bubbling  torrent  of  remarks 
—  wise  and  foolish  —  full  of  personal  descriptions 
and  unkind  little  sketches.  And,  indeed,  there  had 
come  this  sober  narration  of  facts  and  requests. 

But  in  all  this  there  was  one  deep  relief  —  that  it 
should  be  a  girl  like  Jenny  who  was  the  heart  of  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  167 

situation.  If  she  had  been  in  the  least  little  bit  dis- 
turbed, who  could  tell  what  it  would  mean  to  Frank  ? 
For  Frank,  as  he  knew  perfectly  well,  had  a  very 
deep  heart  indeed,  and  had  enshrined  Jenny  in  the 
middle  of  it.  Any  wavering  or  hesitation  on  her 
part  would  have  meant  misery  to  his  friend.  But 
now  all  was  perfectly  right,  he  reflected;  and  really, 
after  all,  it  did  not  matter  very  much  what  Lord 
Talgarth  said  or  did.  Frank  was  a  free  agent ;  he 
was  very  capable  and  very  lovable;  it  couldn't  pos- 
sibly be  long  before  something  turned  up,  and  then, 
with  Jenny's  own  money  the  two  could  manage  very 
well.  And  Lord  Talgarth  could  not  live  for  ever; 
and  Archie  would  do  the  right  thing,  even  if  his 
father  didn't. 

It  was  after  half-past  four  before  he  looked  up 
at  a  glint  of  white  and  saw  Jenny  standing  at  the 
drawing-room  window.  She  stood  there  an  instant 
with  a  letter  in  her  hand ;  then  she  stepped  over  the 
low  sill  and  came  towards  him  across  the  grass, 
serene  and  dignified  and  graceful.  Her  head  was 
bare  again,  and  the  great  coils  of  her  hair  flashed 
suddenly  as  they  caught  a  long  horizontal  ray  from 
the  west. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said.  "Will  you  direct  it? 
I've  told  him  everything." 


i68  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Jack  nodded. 

"That's  excellent!"  he  said.  "It  shall  go  to- 
night." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  and  saw  her  looking  at  him 
with  just  the  faintest  wistfulness.  He  understood 
perfectly,  he  said  to  himself :  she  was  still  a  little  un- 
happy at  not  being  allowed  to  send  the  letter  her- 
self. What  a  good  girl  she  was ! 

"  Have  some  tea  before  you  go  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Thanks.  I'd  better  not.  They'll  be  wondering 
what's  happened  to  me." 

As  he  shook  hands  he  tried  to  put  something  of 
his  sympathy  into  his  look.  He  knew  exactly  how 
she  was  feeling,  and  he  thought  her  splendidly 
brave.  But  she  hardly  met  his  eyes,  and  again  he 
felt  he  knew  why. 

As  he  opened  the  garden  gate  beyond  the  house 
he  turned  once  more  to  wave.  But  she  was  busy 
with  the  tea-things,  and  a  black  figure  was  advan- 
cing briskly  upon  her  from  the  direction  of  the  study 
end  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VII 

(i) 

r  IFE  had  been  a  little  difficult  for  the  Major 
•*~*  for  the  last  fortnight  or  so.  Not  only  was 
Frank's  material  and  moral  support  lacking  to  him, 
but  the  calls  upon  him,  owing  to  Gertie's  extreme 
unreasonableness,  had  considerably  increased.  He 
had  explained  to  her,  over  and  over  again,  with  a 
rising  intensity  each  time,  how  unselfishly  he  had 
acted  throughout,  how  his  sole  thought  had  been  for 
her  in  his  recent  course  of  action.  It  would  never 
have  done,  he  explained  pacifically,  for  a  young  man 
like  Frank  to  have  the  responsibility  of  a  young 
girl  like  Gertie  on  his  hands,  while  he  (the  Major) 
was  spending  a  fortnight  elsewhere.  And,  in  fact, 
even  on  the  most  economical  grounds  he  had  acted 
for  the  best,  since  it  had  been  himself  who  had 
been  charged  in  the  matter  of  the  tin  of  salmon,  it 
would  not  have  been  a  fortnight,  but  more  like  two 
months,  during  which  the  little  community  would 
have  been  deprived  of  his  labor.  He  reminded  her 
that  Frank  had  had  a  clean  record  up  to  that  time 
with  the  police.  .  .  . 

169 


170  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

But  explanation  had  been  fruitless.  Gertie  had 
even  threatened  a  revelation  of  the  facts  of  the 
case  at  the  nearest  police-station,  and  the  Major  had 
been  forced  to  more  manly  tactics  with  her. 
He  had  not  used  a  stick;  his  hands  had  served  him 
very  well,  and  in  the  course  of  his  argument  he  had 
made  a  few  insincere  remarks  on  the  mutual  rela- 
tions of  Frank  and  Gertie  that  the  girl  remembered. 

He  had  obtained  a  frugal  little  lodging  in  one  of 
the  small  streets  of  York,  down  by  the  river  —  in- 
deed looking  straight  on  to  it;  and,  for  a  wonder, 
five  days'  regular  work  at  the  unloading  of  a  string 
of  barges.  The  five  days  expired  on  the  Saturday 
before  Frank  was  expected,  but  he  had  several  shil- 
lings in  hand  on  the  Sunday  morning  when  Frank's 
letter  arrived,  announcing  that  he  hoped  to  be  with 
them  again  on  Sunday  night  or  Monday  morning. 
Two  letters,  also,  had  arrived  for  his  friend  on  the 
Sunday  morning  —  one  in  a  feminine  handwriting 
and  re-directed,  with  an  old  postmark  of  June,  as 
well  as  one  of  the  day  before  —  he  had  held  it  up  to 
the  light  and  crackled  it  between  his  fingers,  of 
course,  upon  receiving  it  —  and  the  other  an  obvious 
bill  —  one  postmark  was  Cambridge  and  the  other 
Barham.  He  decided  to  keep  them  both  intact. 
Besides,  Gertie  had  been  present  at  their  delivery. 

The  Major  spent,  on  the  whole,  an  enjoyable  Sun- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  171 

day.  He  lay  in  bed  till  a  little  after  twelve  o'clock, 
with  a  second-hand  copy  of  the  Sporting  Times,  and 
a  tin  of  tobacco  beside  him.  They  dined  at  about 
one  o'clock,  and  he  managed  to  get  a  little  spirit 
to  drink  with  his  meal.  He  had  walked  out  —  not 
very  far  —  with  Gertie  in  the  afternoon,  and  had 
managed  by  representing  himself  as  having  walked 
seven  miles  —  he  was  determined  not  to  risk  any- 
thing by  foolishly  cutting  it  too  fine  —  to  obtain  a 
little  more.  They  had  tea  about  six,  and  ate,  each 
of  them,  a  kippered  herring  and  some  watercress. 
Then  about  seven  o'clock  Frank  suddenly  walked  in 
and  sat  down. 

"  Give  me  something  to  eat  and  drink,"  he 
said. 

He  looked,  indeed,  extraordinarily  strained  and 
tired,  and  sat  back  on  the  upturned  box  by  the  fire- 
place as  if  in  exhaustion.  He  explained  presently 
when  Gertie  had  cooked  another  herring,  and  he  had 
drunk  a  slop-basinful  of  tea,  that  he  had  walked 
fasting  since  breakfast,  but  he  said  nothing  about 
the  priest.  The  Major  with  an  air  of  great  precise- 
ness  measured  out  half  a  finger  of  whisky  and  in- 
sisted, with  the  air  of  a  paternal  doctor,  upon  his 
drinking  it  immediately. 

"  And  now  a  cigarette,  for  God's  sake,"  said 
Frank.  "  By  the  way,  I've  got  some  work  for  to- 
morrow." 


172  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  That's  first-rate,  my  boy,"  said  the  Major. 
"  I've  been  working  myself  this  week." 

Frank  produced  his  fourpence  and  laid  it  on  the 
corner  of  the  table. 

"  That's  for  supper  and  bed  to-night,"  he  said. 

"  Nonsense,  my  boy;  put  it  back  in  your  pocket." 

"  Kindly  take  that  fourpence,"  remarked  Frank. 
"  You  can  add  some  breakfast  to-morrow,  if  you 
like." 

He  related  his  adventures  presently  —  always  ex- 
cepting the  priest  —  and  described  how  he  had  met 
a  man  at  the  gate  of  a  builder's  yard  this  evening  as 
he  came  through  York,  who  had  promised  him  a 
day's  job,  and  if  things  were  satisfactory,  more  to 
follow. 

"  He  seemed  a  decent  chap,"  said  Frank. 

The  Major  and  Gertie  had  not  much  to  relate. 
They  had  left  the  market-town  immediately  after 
Frank's  little  matter  in  the  magistrates'  court,  and 
had  done  pretty  well,  arriving  in  York  ten  days 
ago.  They  hardly  referred  to  Frank's  detention, 
though  he  saw  Gertie  looking  at  him  once  or  twice 
in  a  curiously  shy  kind  of  way,  and  understood  what 
was  in  her  mind.  But  for  very  decency's  sake  the 
Major  had  finally  to  say  something. 

"  By  the  way,  my  boy,  I  won't  forget  what  you 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  173 

did  for  me  and  for  my  little  woman  here.  I'm  not 
a  man  of  many  words,  but  — 

"Oh!  that's  all  right,"  said  Frank  sleepily. 
"  You'll  do  as  much  for  me  one  day." 

The  Major  assented  with  fervor  and  moist  eyes. 

It  was  not  till  Frank  stood  up  to  go  to  bed  that 
anyone  remembered  the  letters. 

"  By  the  way,  there  are  two  letters  come  for  you," 
said  the  Major,  hunting  in  the  drawer  of  the  table. 

Frank's  bearing  changed.  He  whisked  round  in 
an  instant. 

"Where  are  they?" 

They  were  put  into  his  hand.  He  looked  at 
them  carefully,  trying  to  make  out  the  postmark 
—  turned  them  upside  down  and  round,  but  he  made 
no  motion  to  open  them. 

"Where  am  I  to  sleep?"  he  said  suddenly. 
"  And  can  you  spare  a  bit  of  candle?  " 

i  And  as  he  went  upstairs,  it  must  have  been  just 
about  the  time  that  the  letter-box  at  Barham  was 
cleared  for  the  late  Sunday  post. ) 


(n) 

Frank  lay  a  long  time  awake  in  the  dark  that 
night,  holding  tight  in  his  hand  Jenny's  letter,  writ- 
ten to  him  in  June.  The  bill  he  had  not  even 
troubled  to  open. 


174  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

For  the  letter  said  exactly  and  perfectly  just  all 
those  things  which  he  most  wished  to  hear,  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  wished  to  hear  them.  It 
laughed  at  him  gently  and  kindly;  it  called  him  an 
extraordinarily  silly  boy;  it  said  that  his  leaving 
Cambridge,  and,  above  all,  his  manner  of  leaving 
it  —  Frank  had  added  a  postscript  describing  his  ad- 
venture with  the  saddle  and  the  policeman  —  were 
precisely  what  the  writer  would  have  expected  of 
him;  it  made  delightful  and  humorous  reflections 
upon  the  need  of  Frank's  turning  over  a  new  leaf  — 
there  was  quite  a  page  of  good  advice;  and  finally 
it  gave  him  a  charming  description  —  just  not  over 
the  line  of  due  respect  —  of  his  father's  manner  of 
receiving  the  news,  with  extracts  from  some  of  the 
choicest  remarks  made  upon  that  notable  occasion. 
It  occupied  four  closely-written  pages,  and  if  there 
were,  running  underneath  it  all,  just  the  faintest 
hint  of  strain  and  anxiety,  loyally  concealed  —  well 
—  that  made  the  letter  no  less  pleasant. 

I  have  not  said  a  great  deal  about  what  Jenny 
meant  to  Frank,  just  because  he  said  so  very  little 
about  her  himself.  She  was,  in  fact,  almost  the 
only  element  in  his  variegated  life  upon  which  he 
had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  pouring  out  torrential 
comments  and  reflections.  His  father  and  Archie 
were  not  at  all  spared  in  his  conversation  with  his 
most  intimate  friends;  in  fact,  he  had  been  known, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  175 

more  than  once,  in  a  very  select  circle  at  Cam- 
bridge, to  have  conducted  imaginary  dialogues  be- 
tween those  two  on  himself  as  their  subject,  and 
he  could  imitate  with  remarkable  fidelity  his  Cousin 
Dick  over  a  billiard-table.  But  he  practically  never 
mentioned  Jenny ;  he  had  not  even  a  photograph  of 
her  on  his  mantelpiece.  And  it  very  soon  became 
known  among  his  friends,  when  the  news  of  his 
engagement  leaked  out  through  Jack,  that  it  was 
not  to  be  spoken  of  in  his  presence.  He  had  pre- 
served the  same  reticence,  it  may  be  remembered, 
about  his  religion. 

And  so  Frank  at  last  fell  asleep  on  a  little  iron 
bedstead,  just  remembering  that  it  was  quite  pos- 
sible he  might  have  another  letter  from  her  to-mor- 
row, if  Jack  had  performed  his  commission  im- 
mediately. But  he  hardly  expected  to  hear  till  Tues- 
day. 

Gertie  was  up  soon  after  five  next  morning  to 
get  breakfast  for  her  men,  since  the  Major  had  an- 
nounced that  he  would  go  with  Frank  to  see  whether 
possibly  there  might  not  be  a  job  for  him  too ;  and 
as  soon  as  they  had  gone,  very  properly  went  to 
sleep  again  on  the  bed  in  "the  sitting-room. 

Gertie  had  a  strenuous  time  of  it,  in  spite  of  the 
Major's  frequently  expressed  opinion  that  women 
had  no  idea  what  work  was.  For,  first,  there  was 


176  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  almost  unending  labor  of  providing  food  and 
cooking  it  as  well  as  possible;  there  was  almost  a 
standing  engagement  of  mending  and  washing 
clothes ;  there  were  numerous  arguments  to  be  con- 
ducted, on  terms  of  comparative  equality,  if  possi- 
ble, with  landladies  or  farmers'  wives  —  Gertie  al- 
ways wore  a  brass  wedding-ring  and  showed  it 
sometimes  a  little  ostentatiously;  and,  finally,  when 
the  company  was  on  the  march,  it  was  only  fair 
that  she  should  carry  the  heavier  half  of  the  luggage, 
in  order  to  compensate  for  her  life  of  luxury  and 
ease  at  other  times.  Gertie,  then,  was  usually  dog- 
tired,  and  slept  whenever  she  could  get  a  chance. 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  before  she  was  awak- 
ened again  by  sharp  knocking  on  her  door;  and 
on  opening  it,  found  the  landlady  standing  there, 
examining  a  letter  with  great  attention.  ( It  had  al- 
ready been  held  up  to  the  light  against  the  kitchen 
window.) 

"  For  one  of  your  folks,  isn't  it,  Mrs. —  er — " 

Gertie  took  it.  It  was  written  on  excellent  paper, 
and  directed  in  a  man's  handwriting  to  Mr.  Greg- 
ory: 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs. —  er  — "  said  Gertie. 

Then  she  went  back  into  her  room,  put  the  letter 
carefully  away  in  the  drawer  of  the  table  and  set 
about  her  household  business. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  177 

About  eleven  o'clock  she  stepped  out  for  a  little 
refreshment.  She  had,  of  course,  a  small  private 
exchequer  of  her  own,  amounting  usually  to  only 
a  few  pence,  of  which  the  Major  knew  nothing. 
This  did  not  strike  her  as  at  all  unfair;  she  only 
wondered  gently  sometimes  at  masculine  innocence 
in  not  recognizing  that  such  an  arrangement  was 
perfectly  certain.  She  got  into  conversation  with 
some  elder  ladies,  who  also  had  stepped  out  for 
refreshment,  and  had  occasion,  at  a  certain  point, 
to  lay  her  wedding-ring  on  the  bar-counter  for  ex- 
hibition. So  it  was  not  until  a  little  after  twelve 
that  she  remembered  the  time  and  fled.  She  was 
not  expecting  her  men  home  to  dinner;  in  fact,  she 
had  wrapped  up  provisions  for  them  in  fragments 
of  the  Major's  Sporting  Times  before  they  had  left; 
but  it  was  safer  to  be  at  home.  One  never  knew. 

As  she  came  into  the  room,  for  an  instant  her 
heart  leaped  into  her  mouth,  but  it  was  only  Frank. 

"  Whatever's  the  matter?  "  she  said. 

"  Turned  off,"  said  Frank  shortly.  He  was  sit- 
ting gloomily  at  the  table  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"Turned  off?" 

He  nodded. 

"What's  up?" 

"  'Tecs,"  said  Frank. 


178  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Gertie's  mouth  opened  a  little. 

"  One  of  them  saw  me  going  in  and  wired  for 
instructions.  He  had  seen  the  case  in  the  police- 
news  and  thought  I  answered  to  the  description. 
Then  he  came  back  at  eleven  and  told  the  gov- 
ernor." 

"And—" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  And  George?  " 

"Oh!  he's  all  right,"  said  Frank  a  little  bitterly. 
"  There's  nothing  against  him.  Got  any  dinner, 
Gertie  ?  I  can't  pay  for  it  ...  oh,  yes,  I  can ; 
here's  half  a  day."  (He  chucked  ninepence  upon 
the  table ;  the  sixpence  rolled  off  again,  but  he  made 
no  movement  to  pick  it  up.) 

Gertie  looked  at  him  a  moment. 

"  Well  — "  she  began  emphatically,  then  she 
stooped  to  pick  up  the  sixpence. 

Frank  sighed. 

"  Oh !  don't  begin  all  that  —  there's  a  good  girl. 
I've  said  it  all  myself  —  quite  adequately,  I  assure 
you." 

Gertie's  mouth  opened  again.  She  laid  the  six- 
pence on  the  table. 

"  I  mean,  there's  nothing  to  be  said,"  explained 
Frank.  "  The  point  is  —  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

Gertie  had  no  suggestions.     She  began  to  scrape 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  179 

out  the  frying-pan  in  which  the  herrings  had  been 
cooked  last  night. 

"  There's  a  letter  for  you,"  she  said  suddenly. 

Frank  sat  up. 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  drawer  there  —  by  your  hand.     Frankie 

Frank  tore  at  the  handle  and  it  came  off.  He 
littered  a  short  exclamation.  Then,  with  infinite 
craft  he  fitted  the  handle  in  again,  wrapped  in  yet 
one  more  scrap  of  the  Sporting  Times,  and  drew 
out  the  drawer.  His  face  fell  abruptly  as  he  saw 
the  handwriting. 

"  That  can  wait,"  he  muttered,  and  chucked  the 
letter  face  downwards  on  to  the  table. 

"  Frankie,"  said  the  girl  again,  still  intent  on  her 
frying-pan. 

"Well?" 

"  It's  all  my  fault,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Your  fault !     How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  " 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  you  wouldn't  have 
taken  the  tin  from  George,  and  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Lord !  "  said  Frank,  "  if  we  once  begin  on 
that !  .  .  And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  George, 
he  wouldn't  have  taken  the  tin;  and  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Maggie  Cooper,  there  wouldn't  have  been  the 
tin;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Maggie's  father's  sis- 
ter, she  wouldn't  have  gone  out  with  it.  It's  all 


i8o  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Maggie's  father's  sister's  fault,  my  dear!  It's  noth- 
ing to  do  with  you." 

The  words  were  brisk  enough,  but  the  manner 
was  very  heavy.  It  was  like  repeating  a  lesson 
learned  in  childhood. 

"That's  all  right,"  began  Gertie  again,  "but — " 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  shall  be  annoyed  if  you  go  back 
to  all  that.  Why  can't  you  let  it  alone  ?  The  point 
is,  What's  to  happen?  I  can't  go  on  sponging  on 
you  and  the  Major." 

Gertie  flushed  under  her  tan. 

"  If  you  ever  leave  us,"  she  said,  "  I'll — " 

"Well?" 

"  I'll     .     .     .     I'll  never  leave  George." 

Frank  was  puzzled  for  a  moment.  It  seemed  a 
non  sequitur. 

"  Do  you  mean — " 

"  I've  got  me  eyes,"  said  Gertie  emphatically, 
"  and  I  know  what  you're  thinking,  though  you 
don't  say  much.  And  I've  been  thinking,  too." 

Frank  felt  a  faint  warmth  rise  in  his  own  heart. 

"  You  mean  you've  been  thinking  over  what  I 
said  the  other  day?  " 

Gertie  bent  lower  over  her  frying-pan  and  scraped 
harder  than  ever. 

"Do  stop  that  confounded  row  one  second!" 
shouted  Frank. 

The  noise  stopped  abruptly.     Gertie  glanced  up 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  181 

and  down  again.  Then  she  began  again,  more 
gently. 

"  That's  better,"  said  Frank.  ..."  Well,  I 
hope  you  have,"  he  went  on  paternally.  "  You're 
a  good  girl,  Gertie,  and  you  know  better.  Go  on 
thinking  about  it,  and  tell  me  when  you've  made 
up  your  mind.  When'll  dinner  be  ready  ?  " 

"  Half  an  hour,"  said  Gertie. 

"  Well,  I'll  go  out  for  a  bit  and  look  round." 

He  took  up  the  letter  carelessly  and  went  out. 

(m) 

As  he  passed  the  window  Gertie  glanced  towards 
it  with  the  corner  of  her  eye.  Then,  frying-pan 
still  in  hand,  she  crept  up  to  the  angle  and  watched 
him  go  down  the  quay. 

A  very  convenient  barrel  was  set  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  embankment  above  the  water,  with  an- 
other beside  it,  and  Frank  made  for  this  immedi- 
ately. She  saw  him  sit  on  one  of  the  barrels  and 
put  the  letter,  still  unopened,  on  the  top  of  the 
other.  Then  he  fumbled  in  his  pockets  a  little,  and 
presently  a  small  blue  cloud  of  smoke  went  upwards 
like  incense.  Gertie  watched  him  for  an  instant, 
but  he  did  not  move  again.  Then  she  went  back  to 
her  frying-pan. 


182  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Twenty  minutes  later  dinner  was  almost  ready. 

Gertie  had  spread  upon  the  table,  with  great  care, 
one  of  the  Major's  white  pocket-handkerchiefs. 
He  insisted  upon  those  being,  not  only  retained, 
but  washed  occasionally,  and  Gertie  understood 
something  of  his  reasons,  since  in  the  corner  of 
each  was  embroidered  a  monogram,  of  which  the 
letters  were  not  "  G.  T."  But  she  never  could 
make  out  what  they  were. 

Upon  this  tablecloth  she  had  placed  on  one  side 
a  black-handled  fork  with  two  prongs,  and  a  knife 
of  the  same  pattern  (this  was  for  Frank)  and  on 
the  other  a  small  pewter  tea-spoon  and  a  knife,  of 
which  the  only  handle  was  a  small  iron  spike  from 
which  the  wood  had  fallen  away.  (This  was  for 
herself.)  Then  there  was  a  tooth-glass  for  Frank, 
and  a  teacup  —  without  a  handle,  but  with  a  gold 
flower  in  the  middle  of  it,  to  make  up —  for  her- 
self. In  the  center  of  the  pocket-handkerchief 
stood  a  crockery  jug,  with  a  mauve  design  of  York 
Minster,  with  a  thundercloud  behind  it  and  a  lady 
and  gentleman  with  a  child  bowling  a  hoop  in  front 
of  it.  This  was  the  landlady's  property,  and  was 
half  full  of  beer.  Besides  all  this,  there  were  two 
plates,  one  of  a  cold  blue  color,  with  a  portrait  of 
the  Prince  Consort,  whiskers  and  hat  complete,  in 
a  small  medallion  in  the  center,  and  the  other  white, 
with  a  representation  of  the  Falls  of  Lodore. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  183 

There  was  no  possibility  of  mistaking  any  of  the 
subjects  treated  upon  these  various  pieces  of  table- 
ware, since  the  title  of  each  was  neatly  printed,  in 
various  styles,  just  below  the  picture. 

Gertie  regarded  this  array  with  her  head  on  one 
side.  It  was  not  often  that  they  dined  in  such  lux- 
ury. She  wished  she  had  a  flower  to  put  in  the 
center.  Then  she  stirred  the  contents  of  the  fry- 
ing-pan with  an  iron  spoon,  and  went  again  to  the 
window. 

The  figure  on  the  barrel  had  not  moved ;  but  even 
as  she  looked  she  saw  him  put  out  his  hand  to  the 
letter.  She  watched  him.  She  saw  him  run  a 
finger  inside  the  envelope,  and  toss  the  envelope 
over  the  edge  of  the  quay.  Then  she  saw  him  un- 
fold the  paper  inside  and  become  absorbed. 

This  would  never  do.  Gertie's  idea  of  a  letter 
was  that  it  occupied  at  least  several  minutes  to  read 
through ;  so  she  went  out  quickly  to  the  street  door 
to  call  him  in. 

She  called  him,  and  he  did  not  turn  his  head,  nor 
even  answer. 

She  called  him  again. 


(iv) 

The  letter  that  Frank  read  lies,  too,  with  a  few 
other  papers,  before  me  as  I  write. 


1 84  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

It  runs  as  follows : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRANK, 

"  I  know  you  won't  like  what  I  have  to 
say,  but  it  has  to  be  said.  Believe  me,  it  costs  me 
as  much  to  write  as  you  to  read  —  perhaps  more. 

"  It  is  this :     Our  engagement  must  be  at  an  end. 

"  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  ask  me  for  reasons, 
so  I  will  give  them  at  once,  as  I  don't  want  to  open 
the  subject  again.  It  would  do  no  kind  of  good. 
My  mind  is  absolutely  made  up. 

"My  main  reason  is  this:  When  I  became  en- 
gaged to  you  I  did  not  know  you  properly.  I 
thought  you  were  quite  different  from  what  you 
are.  I  thought  that  underneath  all  your  nice  wild- 
ness,  and  so  on,  there  was  a  very  solid  person. 
And  I  hinted  that,  you  will  remember,  in  my  first 
letter,  which  I  suppose  you  have  received  just  be- 
fore this.  And  now  I  simply  can't  think  that  any 
longer. 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  blame  you  for  being  what 
you  are:  that's  not  my  business.  But  I  must  just 
say  this  —  that  a  man  who  can  do  what  you've 
done,  not  only  for  a  week  or  two,  as  I  thought  at 
first,  as  a  sort  of  game,  but  for  nearly  three  months, 
and  during  that  time  could  leave  me  with  only  three 
or  four  postcards  and  no  news;  above  all,  a  man 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  185 

who  could  get  into  such  disgrace  and  trouble,  and 
actually  go  to  prison,  and  yet  not  seem  to  mind 
much  —  well,  it  isn't  what  I  had  thought  of  you. 

"  You  see,  there  are  a  whole  lot  of  things  to- 
gether. It  isn't  just  this  or  that,  but  the  whole 
thing. 

"  First  you  became  a  Catholic,  without  telling  me 
anything  until  just  before.  I  didn't  like  that,  natu- 
rally, but  I  didn't  say  anything.  It  isn't  nice  for  a 
husband  and  wife  to  be  of  different  religions.  Then 
you  ran  away  from  Cambridge ;  then  you  got  mixed 
up  with  this  man  you  speak  of  in  your  letter  to 
Jack ;  and  you  must  have  been  rather  fond  of  him, 
you  know,  to  go  to  prison  for  him,  as  I  suppose 
you  did.  And  yet,  after  all  that,  I  expect  you've 
gone  to  meet  him  again  in  York.  And  then  there's 
the  undeniable  fact  of  prison. 

"  You  see,  it's  all  these  things  together  —  one 
after  another.  I  have  defended  you  to  your  father 
again  and  again ;  I  haven't  allowed  anybody  to  abuse 
you  without  standing  up  for  you;  but  it  really  has 
gone  too  far.  You  know  I  did  half  warn  you  in 
that  other  letter.  I  know  you  couldn't  have  got  it 
till  just  now,  but  that  wasn't  my. fault;  and  the  letter 
shows  what  I  was  thinking,  even  three  months  ago. 

"  Don't  be  too  angry  with  me,  Frank.  I'm  very 
fond  of  you  still,  and  I  shall  always  stand  up  for 


U 


186  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

you  when  I  can.  And  please  don't  answer  this  in 
any  way.  Jack  Kirkby  isn't  answering  just  yet. 
I  asked  him  not,  though  he  doesn't  know  why. 

"  Your  father  is  going  to  send  the  news  that  the 
engagement  is  broken  off  to  the  newspapers. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"JENNY  LAUNTON." 


PART  II 
CHAPTER  I 

(0 

ARHAM,  as  all  Yorkshire  knows,  lies  at  the 
foot  of  a  long  valley,  where  it  emerges  into 
the  flatter  district  round  Harrogate.  It  has  a  rail- 
way all  to  itself,  which  goes  no  further,  for  Bar- 
ham  is  shut  in  on  the  north  by  tall  hills  and  moors, 
and  lies  on  the  way  to  nowhere.  It  is  almost  wholly 
an  agricultural  town,  and  has  a  curious  humped 
bridge,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  town,  where  men 
stand  about  on  market  days  and  discuss  the  price 
of  bullocks.  It  has  two  churches  —  one,  disused, 
on  a  precipitous  spur  above  the  town,  surrounded 
by  an  amazingly  irregular  sort  of  churchyard,  full, 
literally,  to  bursting  (the  Kirkbys  lie  there,  gen- 
eration after  generation  of  them,  beneath  pompous 
tombs),  and  the  other  church  a  hideous  rectangular 
building,  with  flat  walls  and  shallow,  sham  Gothic 
windows.  It  was  thought  extremely  beautiful  when 
it  was  built  forty  years  ago.  The  town  itself  is 
187 


i88  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

an  irregular  and  rather  -picturesque  place,  with  a 
twisting  steep  High  Street,  looking  as  if  a  number 
of  houses  had  been  shot  at  random  into  this  nook 
among  the  hills  and  left  'to  find  their  own  levels. 

The  big  house  where  the  Kirkbys  have  lived  since 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  is  close  to 
the  town,  as  the  squire's  house  ought  to  be,  and 
its  park  gates  open  right  upon  the  northern  end  of 
the  old  bridge.  There's  nothing  of  great  interest 
in  the  house  (I  believe  there  is  an  old  doorway  in 
the  cellar,  mentioned  in  guide-books),  since  it  was 
rebuilt  about  the  same  time  as  the  new  church  first 
rose.  It  is  just  a  big,  comfortable,  warm,  cool, 
shady  sort  of  house,  with  a  large  hall  and  a  fine  oak 
staircase,  surrounded  by  lawns  and  shrubberies, 
that  adjoin  on  the  west  the  lower  slopes,  first  of  the 
park  and  then  of  the  moors  that  stretch  away  over 
the  horizon. 

There  is  a  pleasant  feudal  air  about  the  whole 
place  —  feudal,  in  a  small  and  neighborly  kind  of 
way.  Jack's  father  died  just  a  year  before  his 
only  son  came  of  age ;  and  Jack  himself,  surrounded 
by  sisters  and  an  excellent  and  beneficently-minded 
mother,  has  succeeded  to  all  the  immemorial  rights 
and  powers,  written  and  unwritten,  of  the  Squire  of 
Barham.  He  entertained  me  delightfully  for  three 
or  four  days  a  few  months  ago,  when  I  was  traveling 
about  after  Frank's  footsteps,  and  I  noticed  with 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  189 

pleasure  as  we  drove  through  the  town  that  there 
was  hardly  a  living  creature  in  the  town  whom  he 
did  not  salute,  and  who  did  not  salute  him. 

He  took  me  first  to  the  bridge  and  pulled  up  in 
the  middle  of  it,  to  point  out  a  small  recess  in  it, 
over  the  central  pier,  intended,  no  doubt,  to  give 
shelter  to  foot-passengers  before  the  bridge  was 
widened,  in  case  a  large  vehicle  came  through. 

"  There,"  he  said.  "  That's  the  place  I  first  saw 
Frank  when  he  came." 

We  drove  on  up  through  the  town,  and  at  the 
foot  of  the  almost  precipitous  hill  leading  up  to  the 
ruined  church  we  got  out,  leaving  the  dog-cart  in 
charge  of  the  groom.  We  climbed  the  hill  slowly, 
for  it  was  a  hot  day,  Jack  uttering  reminiscences 
at  intervals  (many  of  which  are  recorded  in  these 
pages)  and  turned  in  at  the  churchyard  gate. 

"  And  this  was  the  place,"  said  Jack,  "  where  I 
said  good-by  to  him." 


(n) 

It  was  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  September,  a  Mon- 
day, that  Jack  sat  in  the  smoking-room,  in  Nor- 
folk jacket  and  gaiters,  drinking  tea  as  fast  as  he 
possibly  could.  He  had  been  out  on  the  moors  all 
day,  and  was  as  thirsty  as  the  moors  could  make 
him,  and  he  had  been  sensual  enough  to  smoke  a 


igo  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

cigarette  deliberately  before  beginning  tea,  in  order 
to  bring  his  thirst  to  an  acute  point. 

Then,  the  instant  he  had  finished  he  snatched 
for  his  case  again,  for  this  was  to  be  the  best  ciga- 
rette of  the  whole  day,  and  discovered  that  his  sen- 
suality had  overreached  itself  for  once,  and  that 
there  were  none  left.  He  clutched  at  the  silver 
box  with  a  sinking  heart,  half -remembering  that  he 
had  filled  his  case  with  the  last  of  them  this  morn- 
ing. It  was  a  fact,  and  he  knew  that  there  were  no 
others  in  the  house. 

This  would  never  do,  and  he  reflected  that  if  he 
sent  a  man  for  some  more,  he  would  not  get  them 
for  at  least  twenty  minutes.  (Jack  never  could 
understand  why  an  able-bodied  footman  always  oc- 
cupied twenty  minutes  in  a  journey  that  ought  to 
take  eight.)  So  he  put  on  his  cap  again,  stepped 
out  of  the  low  window  and  set  off  down  the  drive. 

It  was  getting  a  little  dark  as  he  passed  out  of 
the  lodge-gates.  The  sun,  of  course,  had  set  at 
least  an  hour  before  behind  the  great  hill  to  the 
west,  but  the  twilight  proper  was  only  just  begin- 
ning. He  was  nearly  at  the  place  now,  and  as  he 
breasted  the  steep  ascent  of  the  bridge,  peered  over 
it,  at  least  with  his  mind's  eye,  at  the  tobacconist's 
shop  —  first  on  the  left  —  where  a  store  of  "  Mr. 
Jack's  cigarettes"  was  always  on  hand. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  191 

He  noticed  in  the  little  recess  I  have  just  spoken 
of  a  man  leaning  with  his  elbows  on  the  parapet, 
and  staring  out  up  the  long  reach  of  the  stream  to 
the  purple  evening  moors  against  the  sky  and  the 
luminous  glory  itself;  and  as  he  came  opposite  him, 
wondered  vaguely  who  it  was  and  whether  he  knew 
him.  Then,  as  he  got  just  opposite  him,  he  stopped, 
uneasy  at  heart. 

Naturally  Frank  was  never  very  far  away  from 
Jack's  thoughts  just  now  —  ever  since,  indeed,  he 
had  heard  the  news  in  a  very  discreet  letter  from 
the  Reverend  James  Launton  a  week  or  two  ago. 
(I  need  not  say  he  had  answered  this  letter,  not  to 
the  father,  but  to  the  daughter,  but  had  received 
no  reply.) 

He  had  written  a  frantic  letter  to  Frank 
himself  then,  but  it  had  been  returned,  marked: 
"  Unknown  at  this  address."  And  ever  since  he  had 
eyed  all  tramps  on  the  road  with  an  earnestness  that 
elicited  occasionally  a  salute,  and  occasionally  an 
impolite  remark. 

The  figure  whose  back  he  saw  now  certainly  was 
not  much  like  Frank;  but  then  —  again  —  it  was 
rather  like  him.  It  was  dressed  in  a  jacket  and 
trousers  so  stained  with  dust  and  wet  as  to  have  no 
color  of  their  own  at  all,  and  a  cloth  cap  of  the  same 
appearance.  A  bundle  tied  up  in  a  red  handkerchief, 


192  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  a  heavy  stick,  rested  propped  against  an  angle 
of  the  recess. 

Jack  cleared  his  throat  rather  loud  and  stood 
still,  prepared  to  be  admiring  the  view,  in  case  of 
necessity ;  the  figure  turned  an  eye  over  its  shoulder, 
then  faced  completely  round;  and  it  was  Frank 
Guiseley. 

Jack  for  the  first  instant  said  nothing  at  all,  but 
stood  transfixed;  with  his  mouth  a  little  open  and 
his  eyes  staring.  Frank's  face  was  sunburned  al- 
most beyond  recognition,  his  hair  seemed  cut  shorter 
than  usual,  and  the  light  was  behind  him. 

Then  Jack  recovered. 

"  My  dear  man,"  he  said,  "  why  the  — " 

He  seized  him  by  the  hands  and  held  him,  staring 
at  him. 

"Yes;  it's  me  all  right,"  said  Frank.  "I  was 
just  wondering — " 

"  Co'me  along,  instantly.  .  .  .  Damn !  I've 
got  to  go  to  a  tobacconist's;  it's  only  just  here. 
There  isn't  a  cigarette  in  the  house.  Come  with 
me?" 

"  I'll  wait  here,"  said  Frank. 

"  Will  you?     I  shan't  be  a  second." 

It  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  scarcely  one  minute 
before  Jack  was  back ;  he  had  darted  in,  snatched 
a  box  from  the  shelf  and  vanished,  crying  out  to 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  193 

"  put  it  down  to  him."  He  found  Frank  had  faced 
round  again  and  was  staring  at  the  water  and  sky 
and  high  moors.  He  snatched  up  his  friend's  bun- 
dle and  stick. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  have  an  hour 
or  two  before  dinner." 

Frank,  in  silence,  took  the  bundle  and  stick  from 
him  again,  firmly  and  irresistibly,  and  they  did  not 
speak  again  till  they  were  out  of  ear-shot  of  the 
lodge.  Then  Jack  began,  taking  Frank's  arm  —  a 
custom  for  which  he  had  often  been  rebuked. 

"  My  dear  old  man !  "  he  said.  "  I  ...  I 
can't  say  what  I  feel.  I  know  the  whole  thing,  of 
course,  and  I've  expressed  my  mind  plainly  to  Miss 
Jenny." 

"Yes?" 

"  And  to  your  father.  Neither  have  answered, 
and  naturally  I  haven't  been  over  again.  .  .  . 
Dick's  been  there,  by  the  way." 

Frank  made  no  comment. 

"  You  look  simply  awful,  old  chap,"  pursued  Jack 
cheerily.  "  Where  on  earth  have  you  been  for  the 
last  month  ?  I  wrote  to  York  and  got  the  letter  re- 
turned." 

"Oh!  I've  been  up  and  down,"  said  Frank  im- 
passively. 

"  With  the  people  you  were  with  before  —  the 
man,  I  mean?" 


194  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  No.  I've  left  them  for  the  present.  But  I 
shall  probably  join  them  again  later." 

"  Join     ...      !  "  began  the  other  aghast. 

"  Certainly !  This  thing's  only  just  begun,"  said 
Frank,  with  that  same  odd  impassivity.  "  We've 
seen  the  worst  of  it,  I  fancy." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  you're  going  back !  Why, 
it's  ridiculous ! " 

Frank  stopped.  They  were  within  sight  of  the 
house  now  and  the  lights  shone  pleasantly  out. 

"  By  the  way,  Jack,  I  quite  forgot.  You  will 
kindly  give  me  your  promise  to  make  no  sort  of 
effort  to  detain  me  when  I  want  to  go  again,  or  I 
shan't  come  any  further." 

"  But,  my  dear  chap  — " 

"  Kindly  promise  at  once,  please." 

"  Oh,  well !  I  promise,  but  — " 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Frank,  and  moved  on. 

"  I  say,"  said  Jack,  as  they  came  up  to  the  hall 
door.  "  Will  you  talk  now  or  will  you  change,  or 
what?" 

.  "  I  should  like  a  hot  bath  first.     By  the  way,  have 
you  anyone  staying  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul ;  and  only  two  sisters  at  home.  And 
my  mother,  of  course." 

"What  about  clothes?" 

"  I'll   see   about   that.     Come  on   round  to  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  195 

smoking-room  window.  Then  I'll  get  in  Jackson 
and  explain  to  him.  I  suppose  you  don't  mind  your 
name  being  known?  He'll  probably  recognize  you, 
anyhow." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  so  long  as  no  one  interferes." 

Jack  rang  the  bell  as  soon  as  they  came  into  the 
smoking-room,  and  Frank  sat  down  in  a  deep  chair. 
Then  the  butler  came.  He  cast  one  long  look  at 
the  astonishing  figure  in  the  chair. 

"Oh!  —  er  —  Jackson,  this  is  Mr.  Frank  Guise- 
ley.  He's  going  to  stay  here.  He'll  want  some 
clothes  and  things.  I  rather  think  there  are  some 
suits  of  mine  that  might  do.  I  wish  you'd  look 
them  out." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?  " 

"  This  is  Mr.  Frank  Guiseley  —  of  Merefield. 
.  .  .  It  is,  really!  But  we  don't  want  more 
people  talking  than  are  necessary.  You  under- 
stand? Please  don't  say  anything  about  it,  except 
that  he's  come  on  a  walking-tour.  And  please  tell 
the  housekeeper  to  get  the  Blue  Room  ready,  and  let 
somebody  turn  on  the  hot  water  in  the  bath-room 
until  further  notice.  That's  all,  Jackson  .  .  . 
and  the  clothes.  You  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  get  the  eau  de  lubin  from  my  dressing- 
room  and  put  it  in  the  bath-room.  Oh,  yes ;  and 
the  wooden  bowl  of  soap." 


196  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  These  clothes  of  mine  are  not  to  be  thrown 
away,  please,  Jackson,"  said  Frank  gravely  from 
the  chair.  "  I  shall  want  them  again." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  That's  all,  then,"  said  Jack. 

Mr.  Jackson  turned  stiffly  and  left  the  room. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Jack.  "  You  remember  old 
Jackson.  He  won't  say  a  word.  Lucky  no  one 
saw  us  as  we  came  up." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  much,  does  it?  "  said  Frank. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  say,  Frank,  when  will  you  tell  me  — 

"  I'll  answer  any  questions  after  dinner  to-night. 
I  simply  can't  talk  now." 

Dinner  was  a  little  difficult  that  night. 

Mrs.  Kirkby  had  been  subjected  to  a  long  lecture 
from  her  son  during  the  half  hour  in  which  she 
ought  to  have  been  dressing,  in  order  to  have  it 
firmly  implanted  in  her  mind  that  Frank  —  whom 
she  had  known  from  a  boy  —  was  simply  and  solely 
in  the  middle  of  a  walking-tour  all  by  himself. 
She  understood  the  situation  perfectly  in  a  minute 
and  a  half —  (she  was  a  very  shrewd  woman  who 
did  not  say  much) — but  Jack  was  not  content. 
He  hovered  about  her  room,  fingering  photographs 
and  silver-handled  brushes,  explaining  over  and 
over  again  how  important  it  was  that  Frank  should 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  197 

be  made  to  feel  at  his  ease,  and  that  Fanny  and 
Jill —  (who  were  just  old  enough  to  come  to  din- 
ner in  white  high-necked  frocks  that  came  down 
to  their  very  slender  ankles,  and  thick  pig-tails  down 
their  backs)  — must  not  be  allowed  to  bother  him. 
Mrs.  Kirkby  said,  "Yes,  I  understand,"  about  a 
hundred  and  thirty  times,  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 
She  stood  with  one  finger  on  the  electric  button  for 
at  least  five  minutes  before  venturing  to  ring  for 
her  majd,  and  it  was  only  that  lady's  discreet  tap 
at  one  minute  before  eight  that  finally  got  Jack 
out  of  the  room.  He  looked  in  on  Frank  in  the 
middle  of  his  dressing,  found  to  his  relief  that  an 
oldish  suit  of  dress-clothes  fitted  him  quite  decently, 
and  then  went  to  put  on  his  own.  He  came  down 
to  the  drawing-room  seven  minutes  after  the  gong 
with  his  ears  very  red  and  his  hair  in  a  plume,  to 
find  Frank  talking  to  his  mother,  and  eyed  by  his 
sisters  who  were  pretending  to  look  at  photographs, 
with  all  the  ease  in  the  world. 

But  dinner  itself  was  difficult.  It  was  the  ob- 
vious thing  to  talk  about  Frank's  "  walking-tour  " ; 
and  yet  this  was  exactly  what  Jack  dared  not  do. 
The  state  of  the  moors,  and  the  deplorable  ravages 
made  among  the  young  grouse  by  the  early  rains, 
occupied  them  all  to  the  end  of  fish ;  to  the  grouse 
succeeded  the  bullocks;  to  the  bullocks,  the  sheep, 


I98  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and,  by  an  obvious  connection  —  obvious  to  all  who 
knew  that  gentleman  —  from  the  sheep  to  the  new 
curate. 

But  just  before  the  chocolate  souffiee  there  came  a 
pause,  and  Jill,  the  younger  of  the  two  sisters,  has- 
tened to  fill  the  gap. 

"  Did  you  have  a  nice  walking-tour,  Mr.  Guise- 
ley?" 

Frank  turned  to  her  politely. 

"  Yes,  very  nice,  considering,"  he  said.    '  , 

"Have  you  been  alone  all  the  time?"  pursued 
Jill,  conscious  of  a  social  success. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Frank.  "  I  was  traveling  with 
a  .  .  .  well,  with  a  man  who  was  an  officer  in 
the  army.  He  was  a  major." 

"  And  did  you  — " 

"  That's  enough,  Jill,"  said  her  mother  decidedly. 
"  Don't  bother  Mr.  Guiseley.  He's  tired  with  his 
walk." 

The  two  young  men  sat  quiet  for  a  minute  or  two 
after  the  ladies  had  left  the  room.  Then  Jack 
spoke. 

"Well?  "he  said. 

Frank  looked  up.  There  was  an  odd,  patient  kind 
of  look  in  his  eyes  that  touched  Jack  a  good  deal. 
Frank  had  not  been  distinguished  for  submissive- 
ness  hitherto. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  199 

"Oh!  a  bit  later,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said. 
We  can  talk  in  the  smoking-room." 


(IV) 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  thing  as  far  as  I 
understand  it,"  began  Frank,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  Jackson,  who  had  brought  whisky  and  can- 
dles. "  And  then  I'll  answer  any  questions  you 
want." 

He  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair,  stretching 
out  his  legs  and  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head. 
Jack  had  a  good  view  of  him  and  could  take  notice 
of  his  own  impressions,  though  he  found  them  hard 
to  put  into  words  afterwards.  The  words  he  finally 
chose  were  "  subdued  "  and  "  patient  "  again,  and 
there  are  hardly  two  words  that  would  have  been 
less  applicable  to  Frank  three  months  before.  At 
the  same  time  his  virility  was  more  noticeable  than 
ever;  he  had  about  him,  Jack  said,  something  of 
the  air  of  a  very  good  groom  —  a  hard-featured 
and  sharp,  yet  not  at  all  unkindly  look,  very  capa- 
ble and,  at  the  same  time,  very  much  restrained. 
There  was  no  sentimental  nonsense  about  him  at  all 
—  his  sorrow  had  not  taken  that  form. 

"  Well,  I  needn't  talk  much  about  Jenny's  last 
letter  and  what  happened  after  that.  I  was  en- 


200  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

tirely  unprepared,  of  course.  I  hadn't  the  faintest 
idea  —  Well,  she  was  the  one  person  about  whom 
I  had  no  doubts  at  all!  I  actually  left  the  letter 
unread  for  a  few  minutes —  (the  envelope  was  in 
your  handwriting,  you  know) — because  I  had  to 
think  over  what  I  had  to  do  next.  The  police  had 
got  me  turned  away  from  a  builder's  yard  — " 

Jack  emitted  a  small  sound.  He  was  staring  at 
Frank  with  all  his  eyes. 

"Yes;  that's  their  way,"  said  Frank.  "Well, 
when  I  read  it,  I  simply  couldn't  think  any  more  at 
all  for  a  time.  The  girl  we  were  traveling  with  — 
she  had  picked  up  with  the  man  I  had  got  into 
trouble  over,  you  know  —  the  girl  was  calling  me 
to  dinner,  she  told  me  afterwards.  I  didn't  hear 
a  sound.  She  came  and  touched  me  at  last,  and 
I  woke  up.  But  I  couldn't  say  anything.  They 
don't  even  now  know  what's  the  matter.  I  came 
away  that  afternoon.  I  couldn't  even  wait  for  the 
Major  — " 

"Eh?" 

"  The  Major.  .  .  .  Oh !  that's  what  the  chap 
calls  himself.  I  don't  think  he's  lying,  either.  I 
simply  couldn't  stand  him  another  minute  just  then. 
But  I  sent  them  a  postcard  that  night  —  I  forget 
where  from;  and  —  There  aren't  any  letters  for 
me,  are  there?  " 

"  One  or  two  bills." 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  201 

"  Oh !  well,  I  shall  hear  soon,  1  expect.  1  must 
join  them  again  in  a  clay  or  two.  They're  some- 
where in  this  direction,  I  know." 

"  And  what  did  you  do?  " 

Frank  considered. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure.  I  know  I  walked  a  great 
deal.  People  were  awfully  good  to  me.  One 
woman  stopped  her  motor  —  and  I  hadn't  begged, 
either — " 

"  You !     Begged !  " 

"Lord,  yes;  lots  of  times.  .  .  .  Well,  she 
gave  me  a  quid,  and  I  didn't  even  thank  her.  And 
that  lasted  me  very  well,  and  I  did  a  little  work  too, 
here  and  there." 

"  But,  good  Lord!  what  did  you  do?  " 

"  I  walked.  I  couldn't  bear  towns  or  people  or 
anything.  I  got  somewhere  outside  of  Ripon  at 
last,  and  went  out  on  to  the  moors.  I  found  an 
old  shepherd's  hut  for  about  a  week  or  ten  days  — " 

"  And  you  — " 

"Lived  there?  Yes.  I  mended  the  hut  thor- 
oughly before  I  came  away.  And  then  I  thought 
I'd  come  on  here." 

"What  were  yon  doing  on  the  bridge?" 

"  Waiting  till  dark.  I  was  going  to  ask  at  the 
lodge  then  whether  you  were  at  home." 

"And  if  I  hadn't  been?" 

"  Gone  on  somewhere  else,  I  suppose." 
M 


202  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Jack  tried  to  help  himself  to  a  whisky  and  soda, 
but  the  soda  flew  out  all  over  his  shirt-front  like 
a  fountain,  and  he  was  forced  to  make  a  small  re- 
mark. Then  he  made  another. 

"What  about  prison?" 

Frank  smiled. 

"  Oh !  I've  almost  forgotten  that.  It  was  beastly 
at  the  time,  though." 

"And  .  .  .  and  the  Major  and  the  work! 
Lord !  Frank,  you  do  tell  a  story  badly." 

He  smiled  again  much  more  completely. 

"  I'm  too  busy  inside,"  he  said.  "  Those  things 
don't  seem  to  matter  much,  somehow." 

"  '  Inside ! '     What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Frank  made  a  tiny  deprecating  gesture. 

"  Well,  what  it's  all  about,  you  know  .  .  . 
Jack." 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  a  frightfully  priggish  thing  to  say,  but  I'm 
extraordinarily  interested  as  to  what's  going  to 
happen  next  —  inside,  I  mean.  At  least,  some- 
times ;  and  then  at  other  times  I  don't  care  a  hang." 

Jack  looked  bewildered,  and  said  so  tersely. 
Frank  leaned  forward  a  little. 

"  It's  like  this,  you  see.  Something  or  other  has 
taken  me  in  hand :  I'm  blessed  if  I  know  what. 
All  these  things  don't  happen  one  on  the  top  of  the 
other  just  by  a  fluke.  There's  something  going 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  203 

on,  and  I  want  to  know  what  it  is.  And  I  suppose 
something's  going  to  happen  soon." 

"  For  God's  sake  do  say  what  you  mean!  " 

"  I  can't  more  than  that.  I  tell  you  I  don't  know. 
I  only  wish  somebody  could  tell  me." 

"  But  what  does  it  all  amount  to  ?  What  are 
you  going  to  do  next  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  know  that  all  right.  I'm  going  to  join 
the  Major  and  Gertie  again." 

"Frank!" 

"  Yes  ?  .  .  .  No,  not  a  word,  please.  You 
promised  you  wouldn't.  I'm  going  to  join  those 
two  again  and  see  what  happens." 

"But  why?" 

"  That's  my  job.  I  know  that  much.  I've  got 
to  get  that  girl  back  to  her  people  again.  She's  not 
his  wife,  you  know." 

"  But  what  the  devil  — " 

"It  seems  to  me  to  matter  a  good  deal.  Oh! 
she's  a  thoroughly  stupid  girl,  and  he's  a  proper 
cad ;  but  that  doesn't  matter.  It's  got  to  be  done ; 
or,  rather,  I've  got  to  try  to  do  it.  I  daresay  I 
shan't  succeed,  but  that,  again,  doesn't  matter.  I've 
got  to  do  my  job,  and  then  we'll  see." 

Jack  threw  up  his  hands. 

"  You're  cracked !  "  he  said. 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Frank  solemnly. 

There  was  a  pause.     It  seemed  to  Jack  that  the 


204  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

whple  thing  must  be  a  dream.  This  simply  wasn't 
Frank  at  all.  The  wild  idea  came  to  him  that  the 
man  who  sat  before  him  with  Frank's  features  was 
some  kind  of  changeling.  Mentally  he  shook  him- 
self. 

"And  what  about  Jenny?"  he  said. 

Frank  sat  perfectly  silent  and  still  for  an  instant. 
Then  he  spoke  without  heat. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure,"  he  said.  "  Sometimes  I'd 
like  to  ...  well,  to  make  her  a  little  speech 
about  what  she's  done,  and  sometimes  I'd  like  to 
crawl  to  her  and  kiss  her  feet  —  but  both  those 
things  are  when  I'm  feeling  bad.  On  the  whole,  I 
think  —  though  I'm  not  sure  —  that  is  not  my  busi- 
ness any  more ;  in  fact,  I'm  pretty  sure  it's  not.  It's 
part  of  the  whole  campaign  and  out  of  my  hands. 
It's  no  good  talking  about  that  any  more.  So  please 
don't,  Jack." 

"  One  question?  " 

"Well?" 

"  Have  you  written  to  her  or  sent  her  a  mes- 
sage?" 

"  No." 

"  And  I  want  to  say  one  other  thing.  I  don't 
think  it's  against  the  bargain." 

"Well?" 

"  Will  you  take  five  hundred  pounds  and  go  out 
to  the  colonies?  " 


\0\i-;  OTHKK   <;O!)S  205 

Frank  looked  up  \\ithan  amused  smile. 

"  Xo.     I     won't  —  thanks    very    much. 
Am  I  in  such  disgrace  as  all  that,  then?  " 

"  You  know  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Jack  quietly. 

"  Xo,  old  chap.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  that. 
I'm  sorry." 

Jack  waved  a  hand. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  loathe  England,  and 
would  like  —  And  you  don't  seem  absolutely  burst- 
ing with  pride,  you  know." 

"  Honestly,  I  don't  think  I  arn,"  said  Frank. 
"  But  England  suits  me  very  well  —  and  there  are 
the  other  two,  you  know.  But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing 
you  could  do  for  me." 

"Yes?" 

"  Pay  those  extra  bills.  I  don't  think  they're 
much." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Jack.  "  And  you  really 
mean  to  go  on  with  it  all  ?  " 

"  Why,  ves." 


(v) 

The  moors  had  been  pretty  well  shot  over  already 
since  the  twelfth  of  August,  but  the  two  had  a  very 
pleasant  day,  for  all  that,  a  couple  of  days  later. 
They  went  out  with  a  keeper  and  half  a  dozen  beat- 
ers —  Frank  in  an  old  homespun  suit  of  Jack's. 


206  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  his  own  powerful  boots,  and  made  a  very  toler- 
able bag.  There  was  one  dramatic  moment,  Jack 
told  me,  when  they  found  that  luncheon  had  been 
laid  at  a  high  point  on  the  hills  from  which  the 
great  gray  mass  of  Merefield  and  the  shimmer  of 
the  lake  in  front  of  the  house  were  plainly  visible 
only  eight  miles  away.  The  flag  was  flying,  too, 
from  the  flagstaff  on  the  old  keep,  showing,  accord- 
ing to  ancient  custom,  that  Lord  Talgarth  was  at 
home.  Frank  looked  at  it  a  minute  or  two  with 
genial  interest,  and  Jack  wondered  whether  he  had 
noticed,  as  he  himself  had,  that  even  the  Rectory 
roof  could  be  made  out,  just  by  the  church  tower  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Neither  said  anything,  but  as  the  keeper  came  up 
to  ask  for  orders  as  they  finished  lunch,  he  tactfully 
observed  that  there  was  a  wonderful  fine  view  of 
Merefield. 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank,  "  you  could  almost  make  out 
people  with  a  telescope." 

The  two  were  walking  together  alone  as  they 
dropped  down,  an  hour  before  sunset,  on  to  the 
upper  end  of  Barham.  They  were  both  glowing 
with  the  splendid  air  and  exercise,  and  were  just 
in  that  state  of  weariness  that  is  almost  unmixed 
physical  pleasure  to  an  imaginative  thinker  who 
contemplates  a  hot  bath,  a  quantity  of  tea,  and  a 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  207 

long  evening  in  a  deep  chair.  Frank  still  preserved 
his  impassive  kind  of  attitude  towards  things  in 
general,  but  Jack  noticed  with  gentle  delight  that 
he  seemed  more  off  his  guard,  and  that  he  even 
walked  with  something  more  of  an  alert  swing  than 
he  had  on  that  first  evening  when  they  trudged  up 
the  drive  together. 

Their  road  led  them  past  the  gate  of  the  old 
churchyard,  and  as  they  approached  it,  dropping 
their  feet  faster  and  faster  down  the  steep  slope, 
Jack  noticed  two  figures  sitting  on  the  road-side, 
witli  their  feet  in  the  ditch  —  a  man  and  a  girl. 
He  was  going  past  them,  just  observing  that  the 
man  had  rather  an  unpleasant  face,  with  a  ragged 
mustache,  and  that  the  girl  was  sunburned,  fair- 
haired  and  rather  pretty,  when  he  became  aware 
that  Frank  had  slipped  behind  him.  The  next  in- 
stant he  saw  that  Frank  was  speaking  to  them,  and 
his  heart  dropped  to  zero. 

"  All  right,"  he  heard  Frank  say,  "  I  was  expect- 
ing you.  This  evening,  then.  ...  I  say, 
Jack!" 

Jack  turned. 

"  Jack,  this  is  Major  and  Mrs.  Trustcott,  I  told 
you  of.  This  is  my  friend,  Mr. —  er  —  Mr.  Jack." 

Jack  bowed  vaguely,  overwhelmed  with  disgust. 

"  Very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir," 
said  the  Major,  straightening  himself  in  a  military 


208  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

manner.  "  My  good  lady  and  I  were  resting  here. 
Very  pleasant  neighborhood." 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Jack. 

"  Then,  this  evening,"  said  Frank  again.  "  Can 
you  wait  an  hour  or  two?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  boy,"  said  the  Major.  "  Time's 
no  consideration  with  us,  as  you  know." 

(Jack  perceived  that  this  was  being  said  at  him, 
to  show  the  familiarity  this  man  enjoyed  with  his 
friend. ) 

"  Would  nine  o'clock  be  too  late?  " 

"  Nine  o'clock  it  shall  be,"  said  the  Major. 

"  And  here  ?  " 

"  Here." 

"  So  long,  then,"  said  Frank.  "  Oh,  by  the 
way  — "  He  moved  a  little  closer  to  this  appalling 
pair,  and  Jack  stood  off,  to  hear  the  sound  of  a 
sentence  or  two,  and  then  the  chink  of  money. 

"  So  long,  then,"  said  Frank  again.  "  Come 
along,  Jack;  we  must  make  haste." 

"  Good-evening,  sir,"  cried  the  Major,  but  Jack 
made  no  answer. 

"  Frank,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  those  are 
the  people  ?  " 

"That's  the  Major  and  Gertie  —  yes." 

"  And  what  was  all  that  about  this  evening?  " 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  209 

"  I  must  go,  Jack.  I'm  sorry ;  but  I  told  you  it 
couldn't  be  more  than  a  few  days  at  the  outside." 

Jack  was  silent,  but  it  was  a  hard  struggle. 

"By  the  way,  how  shall  we  arrange?"  went  on 
the  other.  "  I  can't  take  these  clothes,  you  know ; 
and  I  can't  very  well  be  seen  leaving  the  house  in 
my  own." 

"  Do  as  you  like,"  snapped  Jack. 

"  Look  here,  old  man,  don't  be  stuffy.  How 
would  it  do  if  I  took  a  bag  and  changed  up  in  that 
churchyard?  It's  locked  up  after  dark,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You've  got  a  key,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  that's  it.  And  I'll  leave  the  bag 
and  the  key  in  the  hedge  somewhere." 

Jack  was  silent. 

Jack  held  himself  loyally  in  hand  that  evening, 
but  he  could  not  talk  much.  He  consented  to  ex- 
plain to  his  mother  that  Frank  had  to  be  off  after 
dinner  that  night,  and  he  also  visited  the  house- 
keeper's room,  and  caused  a  small  bundle,  not  much 
larger  than  a  leg  of  mutton,  including  two  small 
bottles  which  jingled  together,  to  be  wrapped  up  in 
brown  paper  —  in  which  he  inserted  also  a  five- 
pound  note  (he  knew  Frank  would  not  take  more) 
—  and  the  whole  placed  in  the  bag  in  which  Frank's 


210  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

old  clothes  were  already  concealed.  For  the  rest 
of  the  evening  he  sat,  mostly  silent,  in  one  chair, 
trying  not  to  watch  Frank  in  another;  pretending 
to  read,  but  endeavoring  to  picture  to  his  imagina- 
tion what  he  himself  would  feel  like  if  he  were 
about  to  join  the  Major  and  Gertie  in  the  church- 
yard at  nine  o'clock.  .  .  Frank  sat  quite 
quiet  all  the  evening,  reading  old  volumes  of  Punch. 
They  dined  at  half-past  seven,  by  request  — 
Frank  still  in  his  homespun  suit.  Fanny  and  Jill 
were  rather  difficult.  It  seemed  to  them  both  a 
most  romantic  thing  that  this  black-eyed,  sunburned 
young  man,  with  whom  they  had  played  garden- 
golf  the  day  before,  should  really  be  continuing 
his  amazing  walking-tour,  in  company  with  two 
friends,  at  nine  o'clock  that  very  night.  They  won- 
dered innocently  why  the  two  friends  had  not  been 
asked  to  join  them  at  dinner.  It  was  exciting,  too, 
and  unusual,  that  this  young  man  should  dine  in  an 
old  homespun  suit.  They  asked  a  quantity  of  ques- 
tions. Where  was  Mr.  Guiseley  going  first? 
Frank  didn't  quite  know.  Where  would  he  sleep 
that  night?  Frank  didn't  quite  know;  he  would 
have  to  see.  When  was  the  walking-tour  going  to 
end?  Frank  didn't  quite  know.  Did  he  really  like 
it  ?  Oh,  well,  Frank  thought  it  was  a  good  thing  to 
go  on  a  walking  tour,  even  if  you  were  rather  un- 
comfortable sometimes. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  211 

The  leave-taking  was  unemotional.  Jack  had  an- 
nounced suddenly  and  loudly  in  the  smoking-room 
before  dinner  that  he  was  going  to  see  the  last  of 
Frank,  as  far  as  the  churchyard;  Frank  had  pro- 
tested, but  had  yielded.  The  rest  had  all  said 
good-by  to  him  in  the  hall,  and  at  a  quarter  to  nine 
the  two  young  men  went  out  into  the  darkness. 


(VI) 

It  was  a  clear  autumn  night  —  a  "  wonderful 
night  of  stars" — and  the  skies  blazed  softly  over- 
head down  to  the  great  blotted  masses  of  the  high 
moors  that  stood  round  Barham.  It  was  perfectly 
still,  too  —  the  wind  had  dropped,  and  the  only 
sound  as  the  two  walked  down  the  park  was  the  low 
talking  of  the  stream  over  the  stones  beyond  the 
belt  of  trees  fifty  yards  away  from  the  road. 

Jack  was  sick  at  heart ;  but  even  so,  he  tells  me, 
he  was  conscious  that  Frank's  silence  was  of  a  pe- 
culiar sort.  He  felt  somehow  as  if  his  friend 
were  setting  out  to  some  great  sacrifice  in  which  he 
was  to  suffer,  and  was  only  partly  conscious  of  it  — 
or,  at  least,  so  buoyed  by  some  kind  of  exaltation 
or  fanaticism  as  not  to  realize  what  he  was  doing. 
(He  reminded  me  of  a  certain  kind  of  dream  that 
most  people  have  now  and  then,  of  accompanying 
some  friend  to  death :  the  friend  goes  forward,  si- 


212  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

lent  and  exultant,  and  we  cannot  explain  nor  hold 
him  back. 

"  That  was  the  sort  of  feeling,"  said  Jack  lamely.) 

Jack  had  the  grim  satisfaction  of  carrying  the 
bag  in  which,  so  to  speak,  the  knife  and  fillet  were 
hidden.  He  changed  his  mood  half  a  dozen  times 
even  in  that  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  through  the 
town.  Now  the  thing  seemed  horrible,  like  a 
nightmare;  now  absurdly  preposterous;  now  rather 
beautiful;  now  perfectly  ordinary  and  common- 
place. After  all,  Jack  argued  with  himself,  there 
are  such  people  as  tramps,  and  they  survive.  Why 
should  not  Frank?  He  had  gipsy  blood  in  him, 
too.  What  in  the  world  was  he  —  Jack  —  fright- 
ened of? 

"  Do  you  remember  our  talking  about  your 
grandmother?  "  he  said  suddenly,  as  they  nearecl 
the  lodge. 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"  Only  I've  just  thought  of  something  else. 
Wasn't  one  of  your  people  executed  under  Eliza- 
beth?" 

"By  gad,  yes;  so  he  was.  I'd  quite  forgotten. 
It  was  being  on  the  wrong  side  for  once." 

"  How  —  the  wrong  side  ?  " 

There  was  amusement  in  Frank's  voice  as  he  an- 
swered. 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  213 

"  It  was  for  religion,"  he  said.  "  He  was  a  Pa- 
pist. All  the  rest  of  them  conformed  promptly. 
They  were  a  most  accommodating  lot.  They 
changed  each  time  without  making  any  difficulty. 
I  remember  my  governor  telling  us  about  it  once. 
He  thought  them  very  sensible.  And  so  they  were, 
by  George!  from  one  point  of  view." 

"  Has  your  religion  anything  to  do  with  all  this  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Frank,  with  an  indif- 
ferent air. 

There  were  a  good  many  doors  open  in  the  High 
Street  as  they  went  up  it,  and  Jack  saluted  half  a 
dozen  people  mechanically  as  they  touched  their 
hats  to  him  as  he  passed  in  the  light  from  the 
houses. 

"  What  does  it  feel  like  being  squire  ?  "  asked 
Frank. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Jack. 

"  Rather  good  fun,  I  should  think,"  said  Frank. 

They  were  nearing  the  steep  part  of  the  ascent 
presently,  and  the  church  clock  struck  nine. 

A  Bit  late,"  said  Frank. 

"When  will  you  come  again?"  asked  the  other 
suddenly.  "  I'm  here  another  fortnight,  you  know, 
and  then  at  Christmas  again.  Come  for  Christmas 
if  you  can." 


214  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Ah !  I  don't  know  where  I  shall  be.     Give  my 
love  to  Cambridge,  though." 
"Frank!" 
"Yes?" 

"  Mayn't  I  say  what  I  think?  " 
"No!" 

Ah !  there  was  the  roof  of  the  old  church  standing 
out  against  the  stars,  and  there  could  be  no  more 
talking.  They  might  come  upon  the  other  two  at 
any  moment  now.  They  went  five  steps  further, 
and  there,  in  the  shadow  of  the  gate,  burned  a  dull 
red  spot  of  fire,  that  kindled  up  as  they  looked,  and 
showed  for  an  instant  the  heavy  eyes  of  the  Major 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

"  Good-evening,  sir,"  came  the  military  voice, 
and  the  girl  rose  to  her  feet  beside  him.  "  You're 
just  in  time." 

"  Good-evening,"  said  Jack  dully. 

"  We've  had  a  pleasant  evening  of  it  up  here, 
Mr.  Kirkby,  after  we'd  stepped  down  and  had  a  bit 
of  supper  at  the  '  Crown.'  " 

"  I  suppose  you  heard  my  name  there,"  said 
Jack. 

"Quite  right,  sir." 

"  Give  us  the  key,"  said  Frank  abruptly. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  215 

He  unlocked  the  door  and  pushed  it  back  over  the 
grass-grown  gravel. 

"  Wait  for  me  here,  will  you?  "  he  said  to  Jack. 

"  I'm  coming  in.  I'll  show  you  where  to 
change." 

Twenty  yards  of  an  irregular  twisted  path,  over 
which  they  stumbled  two  or  three  times,  led  them 
down  to  the  little  ruined  doorway  at  the  west  end 
of  the  old  church.  Jack's  father  had  restored  the 
place  admirably,  so  far  as  restoration  was  possible, 
and  there  stood  now,  strong  as  ever,  the  old  tower, 
roofed  and  floored  throughout,  abutting  on  the  four 
roofless  walls,  within  which  ran  the  double  row  of 
column  bases. 

Jack  struck  a  light,  kindled  a  bicycle  lamp  he 
had  brought  with  him,  and  led  the  way. 

"  Come  in  here,"  he  said. 

Frank  followed  him  into  the  room  at  the  base  of 
the  tower  and  looked  round. 

"  This  looks  all  right,"  he  said.  "  It  was  a  Cath- 
olic church  once,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  the  parson  says  this  was  the  old  sacristy. 
They've  found  things  here,  I  think  —  cupboards  in 
the  wall,  and  so  on." 

"  This'll  do  excellently,"  said  Frank.  "  I  shan't 
be  five  minutes." 


216  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Jack  went  out  again  without  a  word.  He  felt  it 
was  a  little  too  much  to  expect  him  to  see  the  change 
actually  being  made,  and  the  garments  of  sacrifice 
put  on.  (It  struck  him  with  an  unpleasant  shock, 
considering  the  form  of  his  previous  metaphor,  that 
he  should  have  taken  Frank  into  the  old  sacristy.) 

He  sat  down  on  the  low  wall,  built  to  hold  the 
churchyard  from  slipping  altogether  down  the  hill- 
side, and  looked  out  over  the  little  town  below. 

The  sky  was  more  noticeable  here ;  one  was  more 
conscious  of  the  enormous  silent  vault,  crowded 
with  the  steady  stars,  cool  and  aloof;  and,  beneath, 
of  the  feverish  little  town  with  sparks  of  red  light 
dotted  here  and  there,  where  men  wrangled  and 
planned  and  bargained,  and  carried  on  the  little  af- 
fairs of  their  little  life  with  such  astonishing  zest. 
Jack  was  far  from  philosophical  as  a  rule,  but  it  is  a 
fact  that  meditations  of  this  nature  did  engross  him 
for  a  minute  or  two  while  he  sat  and  waited  for 
Frank,  and  heard  the  low  voices  talking  in  the  lane 
outside.  It  even  occurred  to  him  for  an  instant  that 
it  was  just  possible  that  what  Frank  had  said  in  the 
smoking-room  before  dinner  was  true,  and  that 
Something  really  did  have  him  in  hand,  and  really 
did  intend  a  definite  plan  and  result  to  emerge  from 
this  deplorable  and  quixotic  nonsense.  (I  suppose 
the  contrast  of  stars  and  human  lights  may  have 
helped  to  suggest  this  sort  of  thing  to  him.) 


XOX1-:  OTHKK  GODS  217 

Then  he  gave  himself  up  again  to  dismal  consid- 
erations of  a  more  particular  kind. 

He  heard  Frank  come  out,  and  turned  to  see  him 
in  the  dim  light,  bag  in  hand,  dressed  again  as  he 
had  been  three  days  ago.  On  his  head  once  more 
was  the  indescribable  cap;  on  his  body  the  inde- 
scribable clothes.  He  wore  on  his  feet  the  boots  in 
which  he  had  tramped  the  moors  that  day.  (How- 
far  away  seemed  that  afternoon  now,  and  the  cheer- 
ful lunch  in  the  sunshine  on  the  hill-top!) 

"  Here  I  am,  Jack." 

Then  every  promise  went  to  the  winds.  Jack 
stood  up  and  took  a  step  towards  him. 

"  Frank,  I  do  implore  you  to  give  up  this  folly. 
I  asked  you  not  to  do  it  at  Cambridge,  and  I  ask 
you  again  now.  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  I  prom- 
ised. It's  simple  madness,  and — 

Frank  had  wheeled  without  a  word,  and  was 
half-way  to  the  gate.  Jack  stumbled  after  him, 
calling  under  his  breath ;  but  the  other  had  already 
passed  through  the  gate  and  joined  the  Major  and 
Gertie  before  Jack  could  reach  him. 

"  And  so  you  think  up  here  is  the  right  direc- 
tion ?  "  Frank  was  saying. 

"  I  got  some  tips  at  the  '  Crown,'  "  said  the  Ma- 
jor. "  There  are  some  farms  up  there,  where  — 

"  Frank,  may  I  speak  to  you  a  minute?  " 
18 


218  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"No.  ...  All  right,  Major;  I'm  ready  at 
once  if  you  are." 

He  turned  towards  Jack. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  what's  in  this  par- 
cel?" 

"  Something  to  eat  and  drink,"  murmured  Jack. 

"Oh  ...  I  shan't  want  that,  thanks  very 
much.  Here's  the  bag  with  the  clothes  in  it.  I'm 
awfully  grateful,  old  man,  for  all  your  kindness. 
Awfully  sorry  to  have  bothered  you." 

"  By  the  way,  Frankie,"  put  in  the  hateful  voice 
at  his  side,  "  I'll  take  charge  of  that  parcel,  if  you 
don't  want  it." 

"  Catch  hold,  then,"  said  Frank.  "  You're  wel- 
come to  it,  if  you'll  carry  it.  You  all  right, 
Gertie?" 

The  girl  murmured  something  inaudible.  As  at 
their  first  meeting,  she  had  said  nothing  at  all.  The 
Major  lifted  a  bundle  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
hedge,  slung  it  on  his  stick,  and  stood  waiting,  his 
face  again  illuminated  with  the  glow  of  his  pipe. 
He  had  handed  the  new  parcel  to  Gertie  without  a 
word. 

"  Well,  good-by  again,  old  man,"  said  Frank, 
holding  out  his  hand.  He,  too,  Jack  saw,  had  his 
small  bundle  wrapped  up  in  the  red  handkerchief, 
as  on  the  bridge  when  they  had  first  met.  Jack 
took  his  hand  and  shook  it.  He  could  say  nothing. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  219 

Then  the  three  turned  and  set  their  faces  up  the 
slope.  He  could  see  them,  all  silent  together,  pass 
up,  more  and  more  dim  in  the  darkness  of  the 
hedge,  the  two  men  walking  together,  the  girl  a 
yard  behind  them.  Then  they  turned  the  corner 
and  were  gone.  But  Jack  still  stood  where  Frank 
had  left  him,  listening,  until  long  after  the  sound 
of  their  footfalls  had  died  away. 


(VII) 

Jack  had  a  horrid  dream  that  night. 

He  was  wandering,  he  thought,  gun  in  hand 
after  grouse,  alone  on  the  high  moors.  It  was  one 
of  those  heavy  days,  so  common  in  dreams,  when 
the  light  is  so  dim  that  very  little  can  be  seen.  He 
was  aware  of  countless  hill-tops  round  him,  and 
valleys  that  ran  down  into  profound  darkness, 
where  only  the  lights  of  far-off  houses  could  be 
discerned.  His  sport  was  of  that  kind  peculiar  to 
^leep-imaginings.  Enormous  birds,  larger  than  os- 
triches, rose  occasionally  by  ones  or  twos  with  in- 
credible swiftness,  and  soared  like  balloons  against 
the  heavy,  glimmering  sky.  He  fired  at  these  and 
feathers  sprang  from  them,  but  not  a  bird  fell. 
Once  he  inflicted  an  indescribable  wound 
and  the  bird  sped  across  the  sky,  blotting  out  half 
of  it,  screaming.  Then  as  the  screaming  died  he 


220  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

became  aware  that  there  was  a  human  note  in  it, 
and  that  Frank  was  crying  to  him,  somewhere 
across  the  confines  of  the  wold,  and  the  horror  that 
had  been  deepening  with  each  shot  he  fired  rose  to 
an  intolerable  climax.  Then  began  one  of  the  reg- 
ular nightmare  chases:  he  set  off  to  run;  the 
screaming  grew  fainter  each  instant ;  he  could  not 
see  his  way  in  the  gloom ;  he  clambered  over  bowl- 
ders; he  sank  in  bogs,  and  dragged  his  feet  from 
them  with  infinite  pains;  his  gun  became  an  un- 
bearable burden,  yet  he  dared  not  throw  it  from 
him;  he  knew  that  he  should  need  it  presently. 
.  .  .  The  screaming  had  ceased  now,  yet  he 
dared  not  stop  running;  Frank  was  in  some  urgent 
peril,  and  he  knew  it  was  not  yet  too  late,  if  he 
could  but  find  him  soon.  He  ran  and  ran;  the 
ground  was  knee-deep  now  in  the  feathers  that  had 
fallen  from  the  wounded  birds;  it  was  darker  than 
ever,  yet  he  toiled  on  hopelessly,  following,  as  he 
thought,  the  direction  from  which  the  cries  had 
come.  Then  as  at  last  he  topped  the  rise  of  a  hill, 
the  screaming  broke  out  again,  shrill  and  frightful, 
close  at  hand,  and  the  next  instant  he  saw  beneath 
him  in  the  valley  a  hundred  yards  away  that  for 
which  he  had  run  so  far.  Running  up  the  slope 
below,  at  right  angles  to  his  own  path  came  Frank, 
in  the  dress-clothes  he  had  borrowed,  with  pumps 
upon  his  feet;  his  hands  were  outstretched,  his  face 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  221 

white  as  ashes,  and  he  screamed  as  he  ran.  Be- 
hind him  ran  a  pack  of  persons  whose  faces  he 
could  not  see;  they  ran  like  hounds,  murmuring  as 
they  came  in  a  terrible  whining  voice.  Then  Jack 
understood  that  he  could  save  Frank;  he  brought 
his  gun  to  the  shoulder,  aimed  it  at  the  brown  of 
the  pack  and  drew  the  trigger.  A  snap  followed, 
and  he  discovered  that  he  was  unloaded ;  he  groped 
in  his  cartridge-belt  and  found  it  empty.  .  .  . 
He  tore  at  his  pockets,  and  found  at  last  one  car- 
tridge; and  as  he  dashed  it  into  the  open  breach,  his 
gun  broke  in  half.  Simultaneously  the  quarry  van- 
ished over  an  edge  of  hill,  and  the  pack  followed, 
the  leaders  now  not  ten  yards  behind  the  flying  fig- 
ure in  front. 

Jack  stood  there,  helpless  and  maddened.  Then 
he  flung  the  broken  pieces  of  his  gun  at  the  disap- 
pearing runners;  sank  down  in  the  gloom,  and 
broke  out  into  that  heart-shattering  nightmare  sob- 
bing which  shows  that  the  limit  has  been  reached. 

He  awoke,  still  sobbing  —  certain  that  Frank  was 
in  deadly  peril,  if  not  already  dead,  and  it  was  a 
few  minutes  before  he  dared  to  go  to  sleep  once 
more. 


CHAPTER  II 

(i) 

'"TAHE  Rectory  garden  at  Merefield  was,  obvi- 
•^  ously,  this  summer,  the  proper  place  to  spend 
most  of  the  day.  Certainly  the  house  was  cool  — 
it  was  one  of  those  long,  low,  creeper-covered 
places  that  somehow  suggest  William  IV.  and 
crinolines  (if  it  is  a  fact  that  those  two  institutions 
flourished  together,  as  I  think),  with  large,  dark- 
ish rooms  and  wide,  low  staircases  and  tranquil- 
looking  windows  through  which  roses  peep;  but  the 
shadow  of  the  limes  and  the  yews  was  cooler  still. 
A  table  stood  almost  permanently  through  those 
long,  hot  summer  days  in  the  place  where  Dick  had 
sat  with  Jenny,  and  here  the  Rector  and  his  daugh- 
ter breakfasted,  lunched  and  dined,  day  after  day, 
for  a  really  extraordinarily  long  period. 

Jenny  herself  lived  in  the  garden  even  more  than 
her  father;  she  got  through  the  household  business 
as  quickly  as  possible  after  breakfast,  and  came  out 
to  do  any  small  businesses  that  she  could  during  the 
rest  of  the  morning.  She  wrote  a  few  letters,  read 
a  few  books,  sewed  a  little,  and,  on  the  whole,  pre- 
222 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  223 

sented  a  very  domestic  and  amiable  picture.  She 
visited  poor  people  for  an  hour  or  so  two  or  three 
days  a  week,  and  occasionally,  when  Lord  Talgarth 
was  well  enough,  rode  out  with  him  and  her  father 
after  tea,  through  the  woods,  and  sometimes  with 
Lord  Talgarth  alone. 

She  suffered  practically  no  pangs  of  conscience 
at  all  on  the  subject  of  Frank.  Her  letter  had  been 
perfectly  sincere,  and  she  believed  herself  to  have 
been  exceedingly  sensible.  (It  is,  perhaps,  one  may 
observe,  one  of  the  most  dangerous  things  in  the 
world  to  think  oneself  sensible;  it  is  even  more 
dangerous  than  to  be  told  so.)  For  the  worst  of 
it  all  was  that  she  was  quite  right.  It  was  quite 
plain  that  she  and  Frank  were  not  suited  to  one 
another;  that  she  had  looked  upon  that  particular 
quality  in  him  which  burst  out  in  the  bread-and- 
butter  incident,  the  leaving  of  Cambridge,  the  going 
to  prison,  and  so  forth,  as  accidental  to  his  char- 
acter, whereas  it  was  essential.  It  was  also  quite 
certain  that  it  was  the  apotheosis  of  common-sense 
for  her  to  recognize  that,  to  say  so,  and  to  break 
off  the  engagement. 

Of  course,  she  had  moments  of  what  I  should  call 
"  grace,"  and  she  would  call  insanity,  when  she 
wondered  for  a  little  while  whether  to  be  sensible 
was  the  highest  thing  in  life;  but  her  general  atti- 
tude to  these  was  as  it  would  be  towards  tempta- 


224  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

tion  of  any  other  kind.     To  be  sensible,  she  would 
say,  was  to  be  successful  and  effective ;  to  be  other- 
wise was  to  fail  and  to  be  ineffective. 
Very  well,  then. 

At  the  beginning  of  September  Dick  Guiseley 
came  to  Merefield  to  shoot  grouse.  The  grouse,  as 
I  think  I  have  already  remarked,  were  backward 
this  year,  and,  after  a  kind  of  ceremonial  opening, 
to  give  warning  as  it  were,  on  the  twelfth  of  Au- 
gust, they  were  left  in  peace.  Business  was  to  be- 
gin on  the  third,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  second 
Dick  arrived. 

He  opened  upon  the  subject  that  chiefly  occupied 
his  thoughts  just  now  with  Archie  that  night  when 
Lord  Talgarth  had  gone  to  bed.  They  were  sitting 
in  the  smoking-room,  with  the  outer  door  well  open 
to  admit  the  warm  evening  air.  They  had  discussed 
the  prospects  of  grouse  next  day  with  all  proper 
solemnity,  and  Archie  had  enumerated  the  people 
who  were  to  form  their  party.  The  Rector  was 
coming  to  shoot,  and  Jenny  was  to  ride  out  and 
join  them  at  lunch. 

Then  Archie  yawned  largely,  finished  his  drink, 
and  took  up  his  candle. 

"  Oh !  she's  coming,  is  she  ?  "  said  Dick  medi- 
tatively. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  225 

Archie  struck  a  match. 

"  How's  Frank?  "  went  on  Dick. 

"  Haven't  heard  from  him." 

"  Where  is  the  poor  devil  ?  " 

"  Haven't  an  idea." 

Dick  emitted  a  monosyllabic  laugh. 

"And  how's  she  behaving?" 

"Jenny?  Oh!  just  as  usual.  She's  a  sensible 
girl  and  knows  her  mind." 

Dick  pondered  this  an  instant. 

"  I'm  going  to  bed,"  said  Archie.  *'  Got  to  have 
a  straight  eye  to-morrow." 

"  Oh !  sit  down  a  second.  ...  I  want  to 
talk." 

Archie,  as  a  compromise,  propped  himself 
against  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  She  doesn't  regret  it,  then?  "  pursued  Dick. 

"  Not  she,"  said  Archie.  "  It  would  never  have 
done." 

"  I  know."  agreed  Dick  warmly.  (It  was  a  real 
pleasure  to  him  that  head  and  heart  went  together 
in  this  matter.)  "But  sometimes,  you  know, 
women  regret  that  sort  of  thing.  Wish  they  hadn't 
been  quite  so  sensible,  you  know." 

"  Jenny  doesn't,"  said  Archie. 

Dick  took  up  his  glass  which  he  had  filled  with 
his  third  \\hiskv-and-soda.  hardlv  five  minutes  be- 


226  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

fore,  and  drank  half  of  it.  He  sucked  his  mus- 
tache, and  in  that  instant  confidentialism  rose  in 
his  heart. 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  have  a  shot  myself,"  he 
said. 

"What?" 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  shot.  She  can  but  say 
'  No.' " 

Archie's  extreme  repose  of  manner  vanished  for 
a  second.  His  jaw  dropped  a  little. 

"  But,  good  Lord !     I  hadn't  the  faintest  — " 

"  I  know  you  hadn't.  But  I've  had  it  for  a  long 
time.  ;.  v  ..  What  d'you  think,  Archie ?" 

"  My  good  chap  — " 

"Yes,  I  know;  leave  all  that  out.  We'll  take 
that  as  read.  What  comes  next?" 

Archie  looked  at  him  a  moment. 

"  How  d'you  mean  ?  Do  you  mean,  do  I  ap- 
prove?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  admitted  Dick.  "  I 
meant,  how'd  I  better  set  about  it?" 

Archie's  face  froze  ever  so  slightly.  (It  will  be 
remembered  that  Jack  Kirkby  considered  him  pomp- 
ous.) 

"  You  must  do  it  your  own  way,"  he  said. 

"  Sorry,  old  man,"  said  Dick.  "  Didn't  mean 
to  be  rude." 

Archie  straightened  himself  from  the  chair-back. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  227 

"  It's  all  rather  surprising,"  he  said.  "  It  never 
entered  my  head.  I  must  think  about  it.  Good- 
night. Put  the  lights  out  when  you  come." 

"  Archie,  old  man,  are  you  annoyed?  " 

"  No,  no;  that's  all  right,"  said  Archie. 

And  really  and  truly  that  was  all  that  passed  be- 
tween these  two  that  night  on  the  subject  of  Jenny 
—  so  reposeful  were  they. 


(n) 

There  was  a  glorious  breeze  blowing  over  the 
hills  as  Jenny  rode  slowly  up  about  noon  next  day. 
The  country  is  a  curious  mixture  —  miles  of  moor, 
as  desolate  and  simple  and  beautiful  as  moors  can 
be,  and  by  glimpses,  now  and  then  in  the  val- 
leys between,  of  entirely  civilized  villages,  with 
even  a  town  or  two  here  and  there,  prick-up  spires 
and  roofs;  and,  even  more  ominous,  in  this  direc- 
tion and  that,  lie  patches  of  smoke  about  the  great 
chimneys. 

Jenny  was  meditative  as  she  rode  up  alone.  It 
is  very  difficult  to  be  otherwise  when  one  has  passed 
through  one  considerable  crisis,  and  foresees  a 
number  of  others  that  must  be  met,  especially  if 
one  has  not  made  up  one's  mind  as  to  the  proper  line 
of  action.  It  is  all  very  well  to  be  sensible,  but  a 
difficulty  occasionally  arises  as  to  which  of  two  or 


228  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

three  courses  is  the  more  in  accordance  with  that 
character.  To  be  impulsive  certainly  leads  to  trou- 
ble sometimes,  but  also,  sometimes  it  saves  it. 

Jenny  looked  charming  in  repose.  She  was  in  a 
delightful  green  habit;  she  wore  a  plumy  kind  of 
hat;  she  rode  an  almost  perfect  little  mare  belong- 
ing to  Lord  Talgarth,  and  her  big  blue,  steady  eyes 
roved  slowly  round  her  as  she  went,  seeing  nothing. 
It  was,  in  fact,  the  almost  perfect  little  mare  who 
first  gave  warning  of  the  approach  to  the  sports- 
men, by  starting  violently  all  over  at  the  sound  of  a 
shot,  fired  about  half  a  mile  away.  Jenny  steadied 
her,  pulled  her  up,  and  watched  between  the  cocked 
and  twitching  ears. 

Below  her,  converging  slowly  upwards,  away 
from  herself,  moved  a  line  of  dots,  each  precisely 
like  its  neighbor  in  color  (Lord  Talgarth  was  very 
particular,  indeed,  about  the  uniform  of  his  beat- 
ers), and  by  each  moved  a  red  spot,  which  Jenny 
understood  to  be  a  flag.  The  point  towards  which 
they  were  directed  culminated  in  a  low,  rounded  hill, 
and  beneath  the  crown  of  this,  in  a  half  circle,  were 
visible  a  series  of  low  defenses,  like  fortifications, 
to  command  the  face  of  the  slope  and  the  dips  on 
either  side.  This  was  always  the  last  beat  —  in 
this  moor  —  before  lunch;  and  lunch  itself,  she 
knew,  would  be  waiting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hill.  Occasionally  as  she  watched,  she  saw  a  slight 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  229 

movement  behind  this  or  that  butt  —  no  more  — 
and  the  only  evidence  of  human  beings,  beside  the 
beaters,  lay  in  the  faint  wreath  of  all  but  invisible 
smoke  that  followed  the  reports,  coming  now 
quicker  and  quicker,  as  the  grouse  took  alarm. 
Once  with  a  noise  like  a  badly  ignited  rocket,  there 
burst  over  the  curve  before  her  a  flying  brown 
thing,  that,  screaming  with  terrified  exultation, 
whirred  within  twenty  yards  of  her  head  and  van- 
ished into  silence.  (One  cocked  ear  of  the  mare 
bent  back  to  see  if  the  rocket  were  returning  or 
not.) 

Jenny's  meditations  became  more  philosophical 
than  ever  as  she  looked.  She  found  herself  won- 
dering how  much  free  choice  the  grouse  —  if  they 
were  capable  themselves  of  philosophizing  —  would 
imagine  themselves  to  possess  in  the  face  of  this 
noisy  but  insidious  death.  She  reminded  herself 
that  every  shred  of  instinct  and  experience  that  each 
furious  little  head  contained  bade  the  owner  of  it 
to  fly  as  fast  and  straight  as  possible,  in  squawking 
company  with  as  many  friends  as  possible,  away 
from  those  horrible  personages  in  green  and  silver 
with  the  agitating  red  flags,  and  up  that  quiet  slope 
which,  at  the  worst,  only  emitted  sudden  noises. 
A  reflective  grouse  would  perhaps  (and  two'out  of 
three  did)  consider  that  he  could  fly  faster  and  be 
sooner  hidden  from  the  green  men  with  red  flags, 


230  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

if  he  slid  crosswise  down  the  valleys  on  either  side. 
But  —  Jenny  observed  —  that  was  already  calcu- 
lated by  these  human  enemies,  and  butts  (like 
angels'  swords)  commanded  even  these  approaches 
too. 

It  was  obvious,  then,  that  however  great  might  be 
the  illusion  of  free  choice,  in  reality  there  was  none : 
they  were  betrayed  hopelessly  by  the  very  instincts 
intended  to  safeguard  them;  practical  common- 
sense,  in  this  case,  at  least,  led  them  straight  into 
the  jaws  of  death.  A  little  originality  and  impul- 
siveness would  render  them  immortal  so  far  as  guns 
were  concerned.  .  . 

Yes;  but  there  was  one  who  had  been  original, 
who  had  actually  preferred  to  fly  straight  past  a 
monster  in  green  on  a  gray  mare  rather  than  to 
face  the  peaceful  but  deathly  slopes;  and  he  had 
escaped.  But  obviously  he  was  an  exception. 
Originality  in  grouse  — 

At  this  point  the  mare  breathed  slowly  and  con- 
temptuously and  advanced  a  delicate,  impatient  foot, 
having  quite  satisfied  herself  that  danger  was  no 
longer  imminent;  and  Jenny  became  aware  she  was 
thinking  nonsense. 

There"  were  a  number  of  unimportant  but  well- 
dressed  persons  at  lunch,  with  most  of  whom  Jenny 
was  acquainted.  These  extended  themselves  on  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  231 

ground  and  said  the  right  things  one  after  another, 
and  all  began  with  long  drinks,  and  all  ended  with 
heavy  meals.  There  were  two  other  women  whom 
she  knew  slightly,  who  had  driven  up  half  an  hour 
before.  Everything  was  quite  perfect  —  down 
even  to  hot  grilled  grouse  that  emerged  from  em- 
blazoned silver  boxes,  and  hot  black  coffee  poured 
from  "  Thermos  "  flasks.  Jenny  asked  intelligent 
questions  and  made  herself  agreeable. 

At  the  close  of  lunch  she  found  herself  somehow 
sitting  on  a  small  rock  beside  Dick.  Lord  Talgarth 
was  twenty  yards  away,  his  gaitered  legs  very  wide 
apart,  surveying  the  country  and  talking  to  the 
keeper.  Her  father  was  looking  down  the  barrels 
of  his  rather  ineffective  gun,  and  Archie,  with  three 
or  four  other  men  and  two  women,  a  wife  and  a 
sister,  was  smoking  with  his  back  against  a  rock. 

"  Shall  you  be  in  to-morrow  ?  "  asked  Dick  casu- 
ally. 

Jenny  paused  an  instant. 

"  I  should  think  so !  "  she  said.  "  I've  got  one  or 
two  things  to  do." 

"  Perhaps  I  may  look  in  ?  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  something  if  I  may." 

"  Shan't  you  be  shooting  again?  " 

"  No;  I'm  not  very  fit  and  shall  take  a  rest." 

Jenny  was  silent. 

"About  what  time?"  pursued  Dick. 


232  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Jenny  roused  herself  with  a  little  start.  She  had 
been  staring  out  over  the  hills  and  wondering  if 
that  was  the  church  above  Barham  that  she  could 
almost  see  against  the  horizon. 

"  Oh!  any  time  up  to  lunch,"  she  said  vaguely. 

Dick  stood  up  slowly  with  a  satisfied  air  and 
stretched  himself.  He  looked  very  complete  and 
trim,  thought  Jenny,  from  his  flat  cap  to  his  beauti- 
fully-spatted shooting-boots.  (It  was  twelve  hun- 
dred a  year,  at  least,  wasn't  it?) 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  be  moving  directly," 
he  said. 

A  beater  came  up  bringing  the  mare  just  before 
the  start  was  made. 

"  All  right,  you  can  leave  her,"  said  Jenny.  "  I 
won't  mount  yet.  Just  hitch  the  bridle  on  to  some- 
thing." 

It  was  a  pleasant  and  picturesque  sight  to  see 
the  beaters,  like  a  file  of  medieval  huntsmen,  dwin- 
dle down  the  hill  in  their  green  and  silver  in  one  di- 
rection, and,  five  minutes  later,  the  sportsmen  in 
another.  It  looked  like  some  mysterious  military 
maneuver  on  a  small  scale;  and  again  Jenny  con- 
sidered the  illusion  of  free  choice  enjoyed  by  the 
grouse,  who,  perhaps,  two  miles  away,  crouched  in 
hollows  among  the  heather.  And  yet,  practically 
speaking,  there  was  hardly  any  choice  at  all.  .  .  . 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  233 

Lady  Richard,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  men,  inter- 
rupted her  in  a  drawl. 

"Looks  jolly,  doesn't  it?"  she  said. 

Jenny  assented  cordially. 

(She  hated  this  woman,  somehow,  without  know- 
ing why.  She  said  to  herself  it  was  the  drawl  and 
the  insolent  cold  eyes  and  the  astonishing  com- 
placency; and  she  only  half  acknowledged  that  it 
was  the  beautiful  lines  of  the  dress  and  the  figure 
and  the  assured  social  position. ) 

"  We're  driving,"  went  on  the  tall  girl.  "  You 
rode,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

Lord  Talgarth's  mare,  isn't  it?     I  thought  I 
recognized  her." 

"  Yes.  I  haven't  got  a  horse  of  my  own,  you 
know."  said  Jenny  deliberately. 

"Oh!" 

Jenny  suddenly  felt  her  hatred  rise  almost  to 
passion. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  she  said.  "  I've  got  to  visit 
an  old  woman  who's  dying.  A  rector's  daughter, 
you  know — " 

"Ah!  yes." 

Then  Jenny  mounted  from  a  rock  (Lady  Rich- 
ard held  the  mare's  head  and  settled  the  habit),  and 
rode  slowly  away  downhill. 

16 


234  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

(m) 

Dick  approached  the  Rectory  next  day  a  little 
before  twelve  o'clock  with  as  much  excitement  in 
his  heart  as  he  ever  permitted  to  himself. 

Dick  is  a  good  fellow  —  I  haven't  a  word  to  say 
against  him,  except  perhaps  that  he  used  to  think 
that  to  be  a  Guiseley,  and  to  have  altogether  six- 
teen hundred  a  year  and  to  live  in  a  flat  in  St. 
James's,  and  to  possess  a  pointed  brown  beard  and 
melancholy  brown  eyes  and  a  reposeful  manner,  re- 
lieved him  from  all  further  effort.  I  have  wronged 
him,  however;  he  had  made  immense  efforts  to  be 
proficient  at  billiards,  and  had  really  succeeded ; 
and,  since  his  ultimate  change  of  fortune,  has  em- 
braced even  further  responsibilities  in  a  conscien- 
tious manner. 

Of  course,  he  had  been  in  love  before  in  a  sort 
of  way ;  but  this'  was  truly  different.  He  wished  to 
marry  Jenny  very  much  indeed.  .  .  .  That 
she  was  remarkably  sensible,  really  beautiful  and 
eminently  presentable,  of  course,  paved  the  way; 
but,  if  I  understand  the  matter  rightly,  these  were 
not  the  only  elements  in  the  case.  It  was  the  gen- 
uine thing.  He  did  not  quite  know  how  he  would 
face  the  future  if  she  refused  him;  and  he  was  suf- 
ficiently humble  to  be  in  doubt. 

The  neat  maid  told  him  at  the  door  that  Miss 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  235 

Launton  had  given  directions  that  he  was  to  be 
shown  into  the  garden  if  he  came.  .  .  .  No: 
Miss  Launton  was  in  the  morning-room,  but  she 
should  be  told  at  once.  So  Dick  strolled  across  the 
lawn  and  sat  down  by  the  garden  table. 

He  looked  at  the  solemn,  dreaming  house  in  the 
late  summer  sunshine ;  he  observed  a  robin  issue  out 
from  a  lime  tree  and  inspect  him  sideways ;  and  then 
another  robin  issue  from  another  lime  tree  and 
drive  the  first  one  away.  Then  he  noticed  a  smear 
of  dust  on  his  own  left  boot,  and  flicked  it  off  with 
a  handkerchief.  Then,  as  he  put  his  handkerchief 
away  again,  he  saw  Jenny  coming  out  from  the 
drawing-room  window. 

She  looked  really  extraordinarily  beautiful  as  she 
came  slowly  across  towards  him  and  he  stood  to 
meet  her.  She  was  bare-headed,  but  her  face  was 
shadowed  by  the  great  coils  of  hair.  She  was  in 
a  perfectly  plain  pink  dress,  perfectly  cut,  and  she 
carried  herself  superbly.  She  looked  just  a  trifle 
paler  than  yesterday,  he  thought,  and  there  was  a 
very  reserved,  steady  kind  of  question  in  her  eyes. 
( I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  go  on  saying  this  sort 
of  thing  about  Jenny  every  time  she  comes  upon 
the  scene;  but  it  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  even-one 
is  obliged  to  go  on  thinking  whenever  she  makes 
her  appearance.) 

"  I've  got  a  good  deal  to  say/'  said  Dick,  after 


236  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

they  had  sat  a  moment  or  two.  "May  I  say  it 
right  out  to  the  end  ?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  Jenny. 

Dick  leaned  back  and  crossed  one  knee  over  the 
other.  His  manner  was  exactly  right  —  at  any 
rate,  it  was  exactly  what  he  wished  it  to  be,  and 
all  through  his  little  speech  he  preserved  it.  It  was 
quite  restrained,  extremely  civilized,  and  not  at  all 
artificial.  It  was  his  method  of  presenting  a  fact 

—  the  fact  that  he  really  was  in  love  with  this  girl 

—  and  was  in  his  best  manner.     There  was  a  light- 
ness of  touch  about  this  method  of  his,  but  it  was 
only  on  the  surface. 

"  I  daresay  it's  rather  bad  form  my  coming  and 
saying  all  this  so  soon,  but  I  can't  help  that.  I 
know  you  must  have  gone  through  an  awful  lot  in 
the  last  month  or  two  —  perhaps  even  longer  — 
but  I  don't  know  about  that.  And  I  want  to  begin 
by  apologizing  if  I  am  doing  what  I  shouldn't.  The 
fact  is  that  —  well,  that  I  daren't  risk  waiting." 

He  did  not  look  at  Jenny  (he  was  observing  the 
robin  that  had  gone  and  come  again  since  Jenny  had 
appeared),  but  he  was  aware  that  at  his  first  sen- 
tence she  had  suddenly  settled  down  into  complete 
motionlessness.  .  He  wondered  whether  that  was  a 
good  omen  or  not. 

"Well,  now,"  he  said,  "let  me  give  a  little  ac- 
count of  myself  first.  I'm  just  thirty-one;  I've  got 


NONE  OTHKR  GODS  237 

four  hundred  a  year  of  my  own,  and  Lord  Talgarth 
allows  me  twelve  hundred  a  year  more.  Then  I'vr 
got  other  expectations,  as  they  say.  My  uncle  gives 
me  to  understand  that  my  allowance  is  secured  to 
me  in  his  will;  and  I'm  the  heir  of  my  aunt,  Lady 
Simon,  whom  you've  probably  met.  I  just  men- 
tion that  to  show  I'm  not  a  pauper  — 

"  Mr.  Guiseley  — "  began  Jenny. 

"  Please  wait.  I've  not  done  yet.  Do  you  mind  ? 
.  .  .  I'm  a  decent  living  man.  I'm  not  spot- 
less, but  I'll  answer  any  questions  you  like  to  put  — 
to  your  father.  I've  not  got  any  profession,  though 
I'm  supposed  to  be  a  solicitor;  but  I'm  perfectly 
willing  to  work  if  .  .  .  if  it's  wished,  or  to 
stand  for  Parliament,  or  anything  like  that  — 
there  hasn't,  so  far,  seemed  any  real,  particular  rea- 
son why  I  should  work.  That's  all.  And  I  think 
you  know  the  sort  of  person  I  am,  all  round. 

"  And  now  we  come  to  the  point."  (Dick  hesi- 
tated a  fraction  of  a  second.  He  was  genuinely 
moved.)  "  The  point  is  that  I'm  in  love  with  you. 
and  I  have  been  for  some  time  past.  I  ...  I 
can't  put  it  more  plainly.  .  .  .  (One  moment, 
please,  I've  nearly  done.)  ...  I  can't  think 
of  anything  else;  and  I  haven't  been  able  to  for  the 
last  two  or  three  months.  I  ...  I  ... 
I'm  fearfully  sorry  for  poor  old  Frank;  I'm  very 
fond  of  him,  you  know,  but  I  couldn't  help  finding 


238  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

it  an  extraordinary  relief  when  I  heard  the  news. 
And  now  I've  come  to  ask  you,  perfectly  straight, 
whether  you'll  consent  to  be  my  wife." 

Dick  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
begun  his  little  speech. 

She  still  sat  absolutely  quiet  (she  had  not  even 
moved  at  the  two  words  she  had  uttered),  but  she 
had  gone  paler  still.  Her  mouth  was  in  repose, 
without  quiver  or  movement,  and  her  beautiful 
eyes  looked  steadily  on  to  the  lawn  before  her.  She 
said  nothing. 

"If  you  can't  give  me  an  answer  quite  at  once," 
began  Dick  again  presently,  "  I'm  perfectly  willing 
to—" 

She  turned  and  looked  him  courageously  in  the 
face. 

"  I  can't  say  '  Yes,'  "  she  said.  "  That  would  be 
absurd.  .  .  .  You  have  been  quite  straightfor- 
ward with  me,  and  I  must  be  straightforward  with 
you.  That  is  what  you  wish,  isn't  it?" 

Dick  inclined  his  head.  His  heart  was  thump- 
ing furiously  with  exultation  —  in  spite  of  her 
words. 

"  Then  what  I  say  is  this :  You  must  wait  a 
long  time.  If  you  had  insisted  on  an  answer  now, 
I  should  have  said  '  No.'  I  hate  to  keep  you  wait- 
ing, particularly  when  I  do  really  think  it  will  be 
'  No '  in  the  long  run ;  but  as  I'm  not  quite  sure, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  239 

and  as  you've  been  perfectly  honest  and  courteous, 
if  you  really  wish  it  I  won't  say  '  No '  at  once. 
Will  that  do?" 

"  Whatever  you  say,"  said  Dick. 

"  You  mustn't  forget  I  was  engaged  to  Frank 
till  quite  lately.  Don't  you  see  how  that  obscures 
one's  judgment?  I  simply  can't  judge  now,  and 
I  know  I  can't  »  .  .  You're  willing  to  wait, 
then?  —  even  though  I  tell  you  now  that  I  think  it 
will  be  'No'?" 

"Whatever  you  say,"  said  Dick  again;  "and 
may  I  say  thank  you  for  not  saying  '  No '  at  once?  " 

A  very  slight  look  of  pain  came  into  the  girl's 
eyes. 

"  I  would  sooner  you  didn't,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
sorry  you  said  that.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  poor  Dick. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  One  other  thing,"  said  Jenny.  "  Would  you 
mind  not  saying  anything  to  my  father?  I  don't 
want  him  to  be  upset  any  more.  Have  you  told 
anybody  else  you  were  —  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick  bravely,  "  I  told  Archie." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  did  that.  Will  you  then  just  tell 
him  exactly  what  I  said  —  exactly,  you  know. 
That  I  thought  it  would  be  '  No ' ;  but  that  I  only 
didn't  say  so  at  once  because  you  wished  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Dick. 


240  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

It  was  a  minute  or  so  before  either  spoke  again. 
Jenny  had  that  delightful  and  soothing  gift  which 
prevents  silence  from  being  empty.  It  is  the  same 
gift,  in  another  form,  as  that  which  enables  its  pos- 
sessor to  put  people  at  their  ease.  (It  is,  I  suppose, 
one  of  the  elements  of  tact.)  Dick  had  a  sense 
that  they  were  still  talking  gently  and  reasonably, 
though  he  could  not  quite  understand  all  that  Jenny 
was  meaning. 

She  interrupted  it  by  a  sudden  sentence. 

"  I  wonder  if  it's  fair,"  she  said.  "  You  know 
I'm  all  but  certain.  I  only  don't  say  so  be- 
cause — " 

"  Let  it  be  at  that,"  said  Dick.  "  It's  my  risk, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

(m) 

When  he  had  left  her  at  last,  she  sat  on  per- 
fectly still  in  the  same  place.  The  robin  had  given 
it  up  in  despair:  this  human  creature  was  not  going 
to  scratch  garden-paths  as  she  sometimes  did,  and 
disclose  rich  worms  and  small  fat  maggots.  But 
a  cat  had  come  out  instead  and  was  now  pacing 
with  stiff  forelegs,  lowered  head  and  trailing  tail, 
across  the  sunny  grass,  endeavoring  to  give  an  im- 
pression that  he  was  bent  on  some  completely  re- 
mote business  of  his  own. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  241 

He  paused  at  the  edge  of  the  shadow  and  eyed 
the  girl  malignantly. 

"  Wow !  "  said  the  cat. 

There  was  no  response. 

"  Wow !  "  said  the  cat. 

Jenny  roused  herself. 

"  Wow !  "  said  Jenny  meditatively. 

"  Wow !  "  said  the  cat,  walking  on 

"  Wow!"  said  Jenny. 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Wow !  "  said  Jenny  indignantly. 

The  cat  turned  a  slow  head  sideways  as  he  began 
to  cross  the  path,  but  said  nothing.  He  waited  for 
another  entreaty,  but  Jenny  paid  no  more  atten- 
tion. As  he  entered  the  yews  he  turned  once  more. 

"  Wow !  "  said  the  cat,  almost  below  his  breath. 

But  Jenny  made  no  answer.  The  cat  cast  one 
venomous  look  and  disappeared. 

Then  there  came  out  a  dog  —  a  small  brown  and 
black  animal,  very  sturdy  on  his  legs,  and  earnest 
and  independent  in  air  and  manner.  He  was  the 
illegitimate  offspring  of  a  fox-terrier.  He  trotted 
briskly  across  from  the  direction  of  the  orchard, 
diagonally  past  Jenny.  As  he  crossed  the  trail  of 
the  cat  he  paused,  smelt,  and  followed  it  up  for  a 
yard  or  two,  till  he  identified  for  certain  that  it 


242  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

proceeded  from  an  acquaintance;  then  he  turned  to 
resume  his  journey.  The  movement  attracted  the 
girl's  attention. 

"Lama!"  called  Jenny  imperiously.  "Come 
here  this  instant !  " 

Lama  put  his  head  on  one  side,  nodded  and 
smiled  at  her  indulgently,  and  trotted  on. 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  "  said  Jenny,  sighing  out  loud. 


CHAPTER  III 

(0 

HpHERE  lived  (and  still  lives,  I  believe)  in  the 
small  Yorkshire  village  of  Tarfield  a  retired 
doctor,  entirely  alone  except  for  his  servants,  in  a 
large  house.  It  is  a  very  delightful  house,  only 
—  when  I  stayed  there  not  long  ago  —  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  doctor  did  not  know  how  to  use  it. 
It  stands  in  its  own  grounds  of  two  or  three  acres, 
on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road  to  a  traveler 
going  north,  separated  by  a  row  of  pollarded  limes 
from  the  village  street,  and  approached  —  or, 
rather,  supposed  to  be  approached  —  by  a  Charles 
II.  gate  of  iron-scroll  work.  I  say  "  supposed  to 
be  approached  "  because  the  gate  is  invariably  kept 
locked,  and  access  can  only  be  gained  to  the  house 
through  the  side  gate  from  the  stable-yard.  The, 
grounds  were  abominably  neglected  when  I  saw 
them;  grass  was  growing  on  every  path,  and  as 
fine  a  crop  of  weeds  surged  up  amongst  the  old 
autumn  flowers  as  ever  I  have  seen.  The  house, 
too,  was  a  sad  sight.  There  were  two  big  rooms, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  little  entrance-hall  —  one 
243 


244  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  dining-room,  the  other  a  sort  of  drawing-room 
—  and  both  were  dreary  and  neglected-looking 
places.  In  the  one  the  doctor  occasionally  ate,  in 
the  other  he  never  sat  except  when  a  rare  visitor 
came  to  see  him,  and  the  little  room  supposed  to 
be  a  study  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  inner 
hall  that  led  through  the  kitchen  was  hardly  any 
better.  I  was  there,  I  say,  last  autumn,  and  the 
condition  of  the  place  must  have  been  very  much 
the  same  as  that  in  which  it  was  when  Frank  came 
to  Tarfield  in  October. 

For  the  fact  was  that  the  doctor  —  who  was 
possessed  of  decent  private  means  —  devoted  the 
whole  of  his  fortune,  the  whole  of  his  attention, 
and  the  whole  of  his  life  —  such  as  it  was  —  to  the 
study  of  toxins  upstairs. 

Toxins,  I  understand,  have  something  to  do  with 
germs.  Their  study  involves,  at  any  rate  at  pres- 
ent, a  large  stock  of  small  animals,  such  as  mice 
and  frogs  and  snakes  and  guinea-pigs  and  rabbits, 
who  are  given  various  diseases  and  then  studied 
with  loving  attention.  I  saw  the  doctor's  menag- 
erie when  I  went  to  see  him  about  Frank;  they 
were  chiefly  housed  in  a  large  room  over  the 
kitchen,  communicating  with  the  doctor's  own  room 
by  a  little  old  powder-closet  with  two  doors,  and  the 
smell  was  indescribable.  Ranks  of  cages  and 
boxes  rose  almost  to  the  ceiling,  and  in  the  middle 


XOM-:  OTIII-:K  GODS  245 

of  the  room  was  a  large  business-like  looking 
wooden  kitchen-table  with  various  appliances  on  it. 
I  saw  the  doctor's  room  also  —  terribly  shabby,  but 
undoubtedly  a  place  of  activity.  There  were  piles 
of  books  and  unbound  magazines  standing  about 
in  corners,  with  more  on  the  table,  as  well  as  a 
heap  of  note-books.  An  array  of  glass  tubes  and 
vary -colored  bottles  stood  below  the  window,  with 
a  microscope,  and  small  wooden  boxes  on  one  side. 
And  there  was,  besides,  something  which  I  think 
he  called  an  "  incubator  " —  a  metal  affair,  stand- 
ing on  four  slender  legs;  a  number  of  glass  tubes 
emerged  from  this,  each  carefully  stoppered  with 
cotton  wool,  and  a  thermometer  thrust  itself  up  in 
one  corner. 

A  really  high  degree  of  proficiency  in  any  par- 
ticular subject  invariably  leads  to  atrophy  in  other 
directions.  A  man  who  eats  and  breathes  and 
dreams  Toxins,  for  instance,  who  lives  so  much 
in  Toxins  that  he  corresponds  almost  daily  with 
learned  and  unintelligible  Germans;  who  knows  so 
much  about  Toxins  that  when  he  enters,  with 
shabby  trousers  and  a  small  hand-bag,  into  the  room 
of  a  polished  specialist  in  Harley  Street,  he  sees 
as  in  a  dream  the  specialist  rise  and  bow  before 
him  —  who.  when  he  can  be  persuaded  to  contribute 
a  short  and  highly  technical  article  to  a  medical 
magazine,  receives  a  check  for  twenty-five  guineas 


246  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

by  return  of  post  —  a  man  of  this  kind  is  pecul- 
iarly open  to  the  danger  of  thinking  that  anything 
which  cannot  be  expressed  in  terms  of  Toxin  is 
negligible  nonsense.  It  is  the  characteristic  dan- 
ger of  every  specialist  in  every  branch  of  knowl- 
edge ;  even  theologians  are  not  wholly  immune. 

It  was  so  in  the  case  of  Dr.  Whitty  (I  forget 
all  the  initials  that  should  follow  his  name).  He 
had  never  been  married,  he  never  took  any  exercise ; 
occasionally,  when  a  frog's  temperature  approached 
a  crisis,  he  slept  in  his  clothes,  and  forgot  to  change 
them  in  the  morning.  And  he  was  the  despair  of 
the  zealous  vicar.  He  was  perfectly  convinced 
that,  since  the  force  that  underlay  the  production 
of  Toxins  could  accomplish  so  much,  it  could  surely 
accomplish  everything.  He  could  reduce  his  roses, 
his  own  complexion,  the  grass  on  his  garden-paths, 
the  condition  of  his  snakes'  and  frogs'  skins,  and 
the  texture  of  his  kitchen-table  —  if  you  gave  him 
time  —  to  terms  of  Toxin;  therefore,  argued  Dr. 
Whitty,  you  could,  if  you  had  more  time,  reduce 
everything  else  to  the  same  terms.  There  wasn't 
such  a  thing  as  a  soul,  of  course  —  it  was  a  mani- 
festation of  a  conbination  of  Toxins  (or  anti-Tox- 
ins, I  forget  which);  there  was  no  God  —  the  idea 
of  God  was  the  result  of  another  combination  of 
Toxins,  akin  to  a  belief  in  the  former  illusion. 
Roughly  speaking,  I  think  his  general  position  was 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  247 

that  as  Toxins  are  a  secretion  of  microbes  (I  am 
certain  of  that  phrase,  anyhow),  so  thought  and 
spiritual  experiences  and  so  forth  are  a  secretion 
of  the  brain.  I  know  it  sounded  all  very  brilliant 
and  unanswerable  and  analogous  to  other  things. 
He  hardly  ever  took  the  trouble  to  say  all  this;  he 
was  far  too  much  interested  in  what  he  already  knew, 
or  was  just  on  the  point  of  finding  out,  to  treat 
of  these  extravagant  and  complicated  ramifications 
of  his  subject.  When  he  really  got  to  know  his 
mice  and  bats,  as  they  deserved  to  be  known,  it 
might  be  possible  to  turn  his  attention  to  other 
things.  Meanwhile,  it  was  foolish  and  uneconom- 
ical. So  here  he  lived,  with  a  man-of -all-work  and 
his  man's  wife,  and  daily  went  from  strength  to 
strength  in  the  knowledge  of  Toxins. 

It  was  to  this  household  that  there  approached, 
in  the  month  of  October,  a  small  and  dismal  proces- 
sion of  three. 

The  doctor  was  first  roused  to  a  sense  of  what 
was  happening  as  he  shuffled  swiftly  through  his 
little  powder-closet  one  morning  soon  after  break- 
fast, bearing  in  his  hand  the  corpse  of  a  mouse 
which  had  at  last,  and  most  disappointingly,  suc- 
cumbed to  a  severe  attack  of  some  hybrid  of  leprosy. 
As  he  flew  through  to  his  microscope  he  became 
aware  of  an  altercation  in  the  stable-yard  beneath. 


248  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  I  tell  you  he  ain't  a  proper  doctor,"  he  heard 
his  man  explaining ;  "  he  knows  nothing  about 
them  things." 

"  My  good  fellow,"  began  a  high,  superior  voice 
out  of  sight;  but  Dr.  Whitty  swept  on,  and  was 
presently  deep  in  indescribable  disgustingness  of 
the  highest  possible  value  to  the  human  race,  es- 
pecially in  the  South  Seas.  Time  meant  nothing 
at  all  to  him,  when  this  kind  of  work  was  in  hand; 
and  it  was  after  what  might  be  an  hour  or  two 
hours,  or  ten  minutes,  that  he  heard  a  tap  on  his 
door. 

He  uttered  a  sound  without  moving  his  eye, 
and  the  door  opened. 

"  Very  sorry,  sir,"  said  his  man,  "  but  there's  a 
party  in  the  yard  as  won't  — " 

The  doctor  held  up  his  hand  for  silence,  gazed 
a  few  moments  longer,  poked  some  dreadful  little 
object  two  or  three  times,  sighed  and  sat  back. 

"Eh?" 

"  There's  a  party  in  the  yard,  sir,  wants  a  doc- 
tor." 

(This  sort  of  thing  had  happened  before.) 

"  Tell  them  to  be  off,"  he  said  sharply.  He  was 
not  an  unkindly  man,  but  this  sort  of  thing  was 
impossible.  "  Tell  them  to  go  to  Dr.  Foster." 

"  I  'ave,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

"  Tell  them  again,"  said  the  doctor. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  249 

"  i    ave,  sir.     'Arf  a  dozen  times." 

The  doctor  sighed  —  he  was  paying  practically 
no  attention  at  all,  of  course.  The  leprous  mouse 
had  been  discouraging;  that  was  all. 

"If  you'd  step  down,  sir,  an  instant  — 

The  doctor  returned  from  soaring  through  a 
Toxined  universe. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said  sharply.  "  Tell  them  I'm 
not  practicing.  What  do  they  want  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  it's  a  young  man  as  'as  poisoned  'is 
foot,  'e  says.  'E  looks  very  bad,  and  — " 

"Eh?     Poison?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  doctor  appeared  to  reflect  a  moment  (that 
mouse,  you  know  — )  ;  then  he  recovered. 

"  I'll  be  down  directly,"  he  said  almost  mechan- 
ically. "  Take  'em  all  into  the  study." 


(n) 

Dr.  Whitty  could  hardly  explain  to  me,  even 
when  he  tried,  exactly  why  he  had  made  an  ex- 
ception in  this  particular  instance.  Of  course,  I 
understand  perfectly  myself  why  he  did;  but,  for 
himself,  all  he  could  say  was  that  he  supposed  the 
word  Poison  happened  to  meet  his  mood.  He  had 
honestly  done  with  the  mouse  just  now ;  he  had  no 
other  very  critical  case,  and  he  thought  he  might  as 

17 


250  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

well  look  at  the  poisoned  young  man  for  an  instant, 
before  finally  despatching  him  to  Dr.  Foster,  six 
miles  further  on. 

When  he  came  into  the  study  ten  minutes  later 
he  found  the  party  ranged  to  meet  him.  A  girl 
was  sitting  on  a  box  in  the  corner  by  the  window, 
and  stood  up  to  receive  him ;  a  young  man  was  sit- 
ting back  in  a  Windsor  chair,  with  one  boot  off, 
jerking  spasmodically;  his  eyes  stared  unmean- 
ingly before  him.  A  tallish,  lean  man  of  a  par- 
ticularly unprepossessing  appearance  was  leaning 
over  him  with  an  air  of  immense  solicitude.  They 
were  all  three  evidently  of  the  tramp-class. 

What  they  saw  —  with  the  exception  of  Frank, 
I  expect,  who  was  too  far  gone  to  notice  anything 
—  was  a  benignant-looking  old  man,  very  shabby, 
in  an  alpaca  jacket,  with  a  rusty  velvet  cap  on  his 
head,  and  very  bright  short-sighted  eyes  behind 
round  spectacles.  This  figure  appeared  in  the  door- 
way, stood  looking  at  them  a  moment,  as  if  be- 
wildered as  to  why  he  or  they  were  there  at  all; 
and  then,  with  a  hasty  shuffling  movement,  darted 
across  the  floor  and  down  on  his  knees. 

The  following  colloquy  was  held  as  soon  as  the 
last  roll  of  defiled  bandage  had  dropped  to  the  floor, 
and  Frank's  foot  was  disclosed. 

"  How  long's  this  been  going  on  ?  "  asked  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  251 

doctor  sharply,  holding  the  discolored  thing  care- 
fully in  his  two  hands. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  Major  reflectively,  "  he  be- 
gan to  limp  about  —  let's  see  —  four  days  ago. 
We  were  coming  through  — " 

The  doctor,  watching  Frank's  face  curiously 
(the  spasm  was  over  for  the  present),  cut  the  Ma- 
jor short  by  a  question  to  the  patient. 

"  Now,  my  boy,  how  d'you  feel  now?" 

Frank's  lips  moved;  he  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
lick  them ;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  his  eyes  closed, 
and  he  grinned  once  or  twice,  as  if  sardonically. 

"When  did  these  spasms  begin?"  went  on  the 
doctor,  abruptly  turning  to  the  Major  again. 

"Well,  sir  —  if  you  mean  that  jerking  — 
Frankie  began  to  jerk  about  half  an  hour  ago  when 
we  were  sitting  down  a  bit;  but  he's  seemed  queer 
since  breakfast.  And  he  didn't  seem  to  be  able  to 
eat  properly." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  D'you  mean  he  couldn't 
open  his  mouth?  " 

"  Wrell,  sir,  it  was  something  like  that." 

The  doctor  began  to  make  comments  in  a  rapid 
undertone,  as  if  talking  to  himself;  he  pressed  his 
hand  once  or  twice  against  Frank's  stomach ;  he 
took  up  the  filthy  bandage  and  examined  it.  Then 
he  looked  at  the  boot. 


252  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Where's  the  sock?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

Gertie  produced  it  from  a  bundle.  He  looked  at 
it  closely,  and  began  to  mumble  again.  Then  he 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  doctor?"  asked 
the  Major,  trying  to  look  perturbed. 

"  We  call  it  tetanus,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Who  are  you,  my  man?  "  he  said.  "  Any  re- 
lation ?  " 

The  Major  looked  at  him  loftily. 

"  No,  sir.     .     ...     I  am  his  friend." 

"  Ha !  Then  you  must  leave  your  friend  in 
my  charge.  He  shall  be  well  in  a  week  at  the 
latest." 

The  Major  was  silent. 

"  Well?  "  snapped  the  doctor. 

"  I  understood  from  your  servant,  sir  — " 

"  You  speak  like  an  educated  man." 

"  I  am  an  educated  man." 

"Ha  —  well  —  no  business  of  mine.  What 
were  you  about  to  say?  " 

"  I  understood  from  your  servant,  sir,  that  this 
was  not  quite  in  your  line ;  and  since  — 

The  specialist  smiled  grimly.  He  snatched  up 
a  book  from  a  pile  on  the  table,  thrust  open  the 
title-page  and  held  it  out. 

"  Read   that,    sir.     ...     As   it   happens,    it's 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  253 

my  hobby.  Go  and  ask  Dr.  Foster,  if  you  like. 
.  .  .  No,  sir;  I  must  have  your  friend;  it's  a 
good  sound  case." 

The  Major  read  the  title-page  in  a  superior  man- 
ner. It  purported  to  be  by  a  James  Whitty,  and 
the  name  was  followed  by  a  series  of  distinctions 
and  of  the  initials,  which  I  have  forgotten. 
F.R.S.  were  the  first. 

"  My  name,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  Major  handed  the  book  back  with  a  bow. 

"  I  am  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Dr. 
Whitty.  I  have  heard  of  you.  May  I  present 
Mrs.  Trustcott  ?  " 

Gertie  looked  confused.  The  doctor  made  a 
stiff  obeisance.  Then  his  face  became  animated 
again. 

"  We  must  move  your  friend  upstairs,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  will  help,  Mr.  Trustcott,  I  will  call  my 
servant." 

(in) 

It  was  about  half-past  nine  that  night  that  the 
doctor,  having  rung  the  bell  in  the  spare  bedroom, 
met  his  man  at  the  threshold. 

"  I'll  sleep  in  this  room  to-night,"  he  said ;  "  you 
can  go  to  bed.  Bring  in  a  mattress,  will  you?  " 

The   man    looked    at    his   master's    face.     (He 


254  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

looked  queer-like,  reported  Thomas  later  to  his 
wife.) 

"  Hope  the  young  man's  doing  well,  sir?" 

A  spasm  went  over  the  doctor's  face. 

"  Most  extraordinary  young  man  in  the  world," 
he  said.  .  .  .  Then  he  broke  off.  "  Bring 
the  mattress  at  once,  Thomas.  Then  you  can  go 
to  bed." 

He  went  back  and  closed  the  door. 

Thomas  had  seldom  seen  his  master  so  perturbed 
over  a  human  being  before.  He  wondered  what 
on  earth  was  the  matter.  During  the  few  minutes 
that  he  was  in  the  room  he  looked  at  the  patient 
curiously,  and  he  noticed  that  the  doctor  was  con- 
tinually looking  at  him  too.  Thomas  described  to 
me  Frank's  appearance.  He  was  very  much 
flushed,  he  said,  with  very  bright  eyes,  and  he  was 
talking  incessantly.  And  it  was  evidently  this  de- 
lirious talking  that  had  upset  the  doctor.  I  tried 
to  get  out  of  Doctor  Whitty  what  it  was  that 
Frank  had  actually  said,  but  the  doctor  shut  up 
his  face  tight  and  would  say  nothing.  Thomas 
was  more  communicative,  though  far  from  ade- 
quate. 

It  was  about  religion,  he  said,  that  Frank  was 
talking  —  about  religion.  *...  .  .  And  that  was 
really  about  all  that  he  could  say  of  that  incident. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  255 

Thomas  awoke  about  one  o'clock  that  night,  and, 
still  with  the  uneasiness  that  he  had  had  earlier  in 
the  evening,  climbed  out  of  bed  without  disturbing 
his  wife,  put  on  his  slippers  and  great-coat  and 
made  his  way  down  the  attic  stairs.  The  October 
moon  was  up,  and,  shining  through  the  staircase 
window,  showed  him  the  door  of  the  spare  bed- 
room with  a  line  of  light  beneath  it.  From  beyond 
that  door  came  the  steady  murmur  of  a  voice. 

Now  Thomas's  nerves  were  strong:  he  was  a 
little  lean  kind  of  man,  very  wiry  and  active,  nearly 
fifty  years  old,  and  he  had  lived  with  his  master, 
and  the  mice  and  the  snakes,  and  disagreeable  ob- 
jects in  bottles,  for  more  than  sixteen  years.  He 
had  been  a  male  nurse  in  an  asylum  before  that. 
Yet  there  was  something  —  he  told  me  later  — 
that  gripped  him  suddenly  as  he  was  half-way 
down  the  stairs  and  held  him  in  a  kind  of  agony 
which  he  could  in  no  way  describe.  It  was  con- 
nected with  the  room  behind  that  lighted  door.  It 
was  not  that  he  feared  for  his  master,  nor  for 
Frank.  It  was  something  else  altogether.  (What 
a  pity  it  is  that  our  system  of  education  teaches 
neither  self-analysis  nor  the  art  of  narration!) 

He  stood  there  —  he  told  me  —  he  should  think 
for  the  better  part  of  ten  minutes,  unable  to  move 
either  way,  listening,  always  listening,  to  the  voice 


256  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

that  rose  and  sank  and  lapsed  now  and  then  into 
silences  that  were  worse  than  all,  and  telling  him- 
self vigorously  that  he  was  not  at  all  frightened. 

It  was  a  creek  somewhere  in  the  old  house  that 
disturbed  him  and  snapped  the  thin,  rigid  little 
thread  that  seemed  to  paralyze  his  soul;  and  still  in 
a  sort  of  terror,  though  no  longer  in  the  same  stiff 
agony,  he  made  his  way  down  the  three  or  four 
further  steps  of  the  flight,  laid  hold  of  the  handle, 
turned  it  and  peered  in. 

Frank  was  lying  quiet  so  far  as  he  could  see. 
A  night-light  burned  by  the  bottles  and  syringes 
on  the  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and,  although 
shaded  from  the  young  man's  face,  still  diffused 
enough  light  to  show  the  servant  the  figure  lying 
there,  and  his  master,  seated  beyond  the  bed,  very 
close  to  it,  still  in  his  day-clothes  —  still,  even,  in 
his  velvet  cap  —  his  chin  propped  in  his  hand,  star- 
ing down  at  his  patient,  utterly  absorbed  and  atten- 
tive. 

There  was  nothing  particularly  alarming  in  all 
that,  and  yet  there  was  that  in  the  room  which  once 
more  seized  the  man  at  his  heart  and  held  him 
there,  rigid  again,  terrified,  and,  above  all,  inex- 
pressibly awed.  (At  least,  that  is  how  I  should 
interpret  his  description.)  He  said  that  it  wasn't 
like  the  spare  bedroom  at  all,  as  he  ordinarily  knew 
it  (and,  indeed,  it  was  a  mean  sort  of  room  when 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  257 

I  saw  it,  without  a  fireplace,  though  of  tolerable 
size).  It  was  like  another  room  altogether,  said 
Thomas. 

He  tried  to  listen  to  what  Frank  was  saying, 
and  I  imagine  he  heard  it  all  quite  intelligently; 
yet,  once  more,  all  he  could  say  afterwards  was 
that  it  was  about  religion  .  .  .  about  religion. 

So  he  stood,  till  he  suddenly  perceived  that  the 
doctor  was  looking  at  him  with  a  frown  and  con- 
torted features  of  eloquence.  He  understood  that 
he  was  to  go.  He  closed  the  door  noiselessly ;  and, 
after  another  pause,  sped  upstairs  without  a  sound 
in  his  red  cloth  slippers. 


(IV) 

When  Frank  awoke  to  normal  consciousness 
again,  he  lay  still,  wondering  what  it  was  all  about. 
He  saw  a  table  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  and  noticed 
on  it  a  small  leather  case,  two  green  bottles  stop- 
pered with  indiarubber,  and  a  small  covered  bowl 
looking  as  if  it  contained  beef-tea.  He  extended 
his  explorations  still  further,  and  discovered  an 
Hanoverian  wardrobe  against  the  left  wall,  a  glare 
of  light  (which  he  presently  discerned  to  be  a  win- 
dow), a  dingy  wall-paper,  and  finally  a  door.  As 
he  reached  this  point  the  door  opened  and  an  old 


258  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

man  with  a  velvet  skull-cap,  spectacles,  and  a  kind, 
furrowed  face,  came  in  and  stood  over  him. 

"Well?"  said  the  old  man. 

"  I  am  a  bit  stiff,"  said  Frank. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"  Well,  you're  doing  very  well,  if  that's  any  sat- 
isfaction to  you,"  observed  the  doctor,  frowning 
on  him  doubtfully. 

Frank  said  nothing. 

The  doctor  sat  down  on  a  chair  by  the  bed  that 
Frank  suddenly  noticed  for  the  first  time. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  suppose  you  want 
to  know  the  facts.  Here  they  are.  My  name  is 
Whitty;  I'm  a  doctor;  you're  in  my  house.  This 
is  Wednesday  afternoon;  your  friends  brought 
you  here  yesterday  morning.  I've  given  them 
some  work  in  the  garden.  You  were  ill  yesterday, 
but  you're  all  right  now." 

"  What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  We  won't  bother  about  names,"  said  the  doctor 
with  a  kind  sharpness.  "  You  had  a  blister ;  it 
broke  and  became  a  sore;  then  you  wore  one  of 
those  nasty  cheap  socks  and,  it.  poisoned-  it.  That's 
all." 

"What's  in  those  bottles?''"  asked  Frank  laa- 
guidly.  (He  felt  amazingly  weak  and  stupid.) 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  259 

"  Well,  it's  an  anti-toxin,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  That  doesn't  tell  you  much,  does  it?  " 

"No,"  said  Frank.  .  .  .  "By  the  way, 
who's  going  to  pay  you,  doctor?  I  can't." 

The  doctor's  face  rumpled  up  into  wrinkles. 
( Frank  wished  he  wouldn't  sit  with  his  back  to  the 
window.) 

"  Don't  you  bother  about  that,  my  boy.  You're 
a  case  —  that's  what  you  are." 

Frank  attempted  a  smile  out  of  politeness. 

"  Now,  how  about  some  more  beef -tea,  and  then 
going  to  sleep  again?  " 

Frank  assented. 

It  was  not  until  the  Thursday  morning  that 
things  began  to  run  really  clear  again  in  Frank's 
mind.  He  felt  for  his  rosary  under  his  pillow  and 
it  wasn't  there.  Then  he  thumped  on  the  floor 
with  a  short  stick  which  had  been  placed  by  him, 
remembering  that  in  some  previous  existence  he 
had  been  told  to  do  this. 

A  small,  lean  man  appeared  at  the  door,  it 
seemed,  with  the  quickness  of  thought. 

"  My  rosary,  please,"  said  Frank.  "  It's  a  string 
of  beads.  I  expect  it's  in  my  trouser-pocket." 

The  man  looked  at  him  with  extraordinary  ear- 
nestness and  vanished. 


260  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Then  the  doctor  appeared  holding  the  rosary. 

"  Is  this  what  you  want?  "  he  asked. 

"That's  it!     Thanks  very  much." 

"  You're  a  Catholic?  "  went  on  the  other,  giving 
it  him. 

"  Yes." 

The  doctor  sat  down  again. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  said. 

Frank  wondered  why.  Then  a  thought  crossed 
his  mind. 

"  Have  I  been  talking?  "  he  said.  "  I  suppose  I 
was  delirious?  " 

The  doctor  made  no  answer  for  a  moment;  he 
was  looking  at  him  fixedly.  Then  he  roused  him- 
self. 

"  Well,  yes,  you  have,"  he  said. 

Frank  felt  rather  uncomfortable. 

"  Hope  I  haven't  said  anything  I  shouldn't." 

The  old  man  laughed  shortly  and  grimly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "  Far  from  it.  At  least, 
your  friends  wouldn't  think  so." 

"What  was  it  about?" 

"  We'll  talk  about  that  later,  if  you  like,"  said 
the  doctor.  "  Now  I  want  you  to  get  up  a  bit  after 
you've  had  some  food." 

It  was  with  a  very  strange  sensation  that  Frank 
found  himself  out  in  the  garden  next  day,  in  a 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  261 

sheltered  corner,  seated  in  a  wicker  chair  in  which, 
by  the  help  of  bamboo  poles,  he  had  been  carried 
downstairs  by  Thomas  and  the  Major,  with  the 
doctor  leading  the  way  and  giving  directions  as 
to  how  to  turn  the  corners.  The  chair  was  brought 
out  through  an  irregularly-shaped  little  court  at  the 
back  of  the  house  and  set  down  in  the  warm 
autumn  noon,  against  an  old  wall,  with  a  big  kitchen 
garden,  terribly  neglected,  spread  before  him.  The 
smoke  of  burning  went  up  in  the  middle  distance, 
denoting  the  heap  of  weeds  pulled  by  the  Major 
and  Gertie  during  the  last  three  days.  He  saw 
Gertie  in  the  distance  once  or  twice,  in  a  clean  sun- 
bonnet,  going  about  her  business,  but  she  made 
no  sign.  The  smell  of  the  burning  weeds  gave 
a  pleasant,  wholesome  and  acrid  taste  to  his  mouth. 
"  Now  then,"  said  the  doctor,  "  we  can  have  our 
little  talk."  And  he  sat  down  beside  him  on  an- 
other chair. 

Frank  felt  a  little  nervous,  he  scarcely  knew 
why.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  far  better 
not  to  refer  to  the  past  at  all.  And  it  appeared  to 
him  a  little  unusual  that  a  doctor  should  be  so  anx- 
ious about  it.  Twice  or  three  times  since  yester- 
day this  old  man  had  begun  to  ask  him  a  question 
and  had  checked  himself.  There  was  a  very  curi- 
ous eagerness  about  him  now. 


262  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  I'm  awfully  grateful  and  all  that,"  said  Frank. 
"  Is  there  anything  special  you  want  to  know  ?  I 
suppose  I've  been  talking  about  my  people?  " 

The  doctor  waved  a  wrinkled  hand. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  not  a  word.  You  talked 
about  a  girl  a  little,  of  course  —  everybody  does ; 
but  not  much.  No,  it  isn't  that." 

Frank  felt  relieved.  He  wasn't  anxious  about 
anything  else. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.     By  the  way,  may  I  smoke  ?  " 

The  doctor  produced  a  leather  case  of  cigarettes 
and  held  it  out. 

"  Take  one  of  these,"  he  said. 

"  Because,"  continued  Frank,  "  I'm  afraid  I 
mustn't  talk  about  my  people.  The  name  I've  got 
now  is  Gregory,  you  know."  He  lit  his  cigarette, 
noticing  how  his  fingers  still  shook,  and  dropped  the 
match. 

"  No,  it's  not  about  that,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  it's 
not  about  that." 

Frank  glanced  at  him,  astonished  by  his  manner. 

"  Well,  then  —  ?  "  he  began. 

"  I  want  to  know  first,"  said  the  doctor  slowly, 
"  where  you've  got  all  your  ideas  from.  I've  never 
heard  such  a  jumble  in  my  life.  I  know  you  were 
delirious;  but  .  .  .  but  it  hung  together  some- 
how; and  it  seemed  much  more  real  to  you  than 
anything  else." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  263 

"What  did?"  asked  Frank  uncomfortably. 

The  doctor  made  no  answer  for  a  moment.  He 
looked  out  across  the  untidy  garden  with  its  rich, 
faded  finery  of  wild  flowers  and  autumn  leaves, 
and  the  yellowing  foliage  beyond  the  wall,  and  the 
moors  behind  —  all  transfigured  in  October  sun- 
shine. The  smoke  of  the  burning  weeds  drew 
heavenly  lines  and  folds  of  ethereal  lace-work 
across  the  dull  splendors  beyond. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "  everything.  You 
know  I've  heard  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  folks 
.  .  ."  he  broke  off  again,  ".  .  .  and  I  know 
what  people  call  religion  about  here  —  and  such  a 
pack  of  nonsense  .  .  ."  (He  turned  on  Frank 
again  suddenly.)  "Where  d'you  get  your  ideas 
from?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  Catholic  religion?"  said 
Frank. 

"  Bah !  don't  call  it  that.  I  know  what  that 
is — "  Frank  interrupted  him. 

"  Well,  that's  my  religion,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't 
got  any  other." 

"  But  .  .  .  but  the  way  you  hold  it,"  cried 
the  other;  "the  grip  ...  the  grip  it  has  of 
you.  That's  the  point.  D'you  mean  to  tell 
me — " 

"  I  mean  that  I  don't  care  for  anything  else  in 


,264  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  whole  world,"  said  Frank,  stung  with  sudden 
enthusiasm. 

"  But  .  .  .  but  you're  not  mad !  You're  a 
very  sensible  fellow.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
you  really  believe  all  that  —  all  that  about  pain 
and  so  on?  We  doctors  know  perfectly  what  all 
that  is.  It's  a  reaction  of  Nature  ...  a 
warning  to  look  out  .  .  .  it's  often  simply  the 
effects  of  building  up;  and  we're  beginning  to 
think  —  ah !  that  won't  interest  you !  Listen  to 
me!  I'm  what  they  call  a  specialist — ,an  investi- 
gator. I  can  tell  you,  without  conceit,  that  I  prob- 
ably know  all  that  is  to  be  known  on  a  certain  sub- 
ject. Well,  I  can  tell  you  as  an  authority  — " 

Frank  lifted  his  head  a  little.  He  was  keenly 
interested  by  the  fire  with  which  this  other  enthu- 
siast spoke. 

"  I  daresay  you  can,"  said  Frank.  "  And  I  dare- 
say it's  all  perfectly  true;  but  what  in  the  world 
has  all  that  got  to  do  with  it  —  with  the  use  made 
of  it  —  the  meaning  of  it?  Now  I — " 

"  Hush !  hush !  "  said  the  doctor.  "  We  mustn't 
get  excited.  That's  no  good." 

He  stopped  and  stared  mournfully  out  again. 

"  I  wish  you  could  really  tell  me,"  he  said  more 
slowly.  "  But  that's  just  what  you  can't.  I  know 
that.  It's  a  personal  thing." 

"  But  my  dear  doctor  — "  said  Frank. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  265 

11  That's  enough,"  said  the  other.  "  I  was  an  old 
fool  to  think  it  possible  — 

Frank  interrupted  again  in  his  turn.  (He  was 
conscious  of  that  extraordinary  mental  clearness 
that  comes  sometimes  to  convalescents,  and  he  sud- 
denly perceived  there  was  something  behind  all  this 
which  had  not  yet  made  its  appearance.) 

"  You've  some  reason  for  asking  all  this,"  he 
said.  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  exactly  what's  in  your 
mind." 

The  old  man  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
kind  of  doubtful  fixedness. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  my  boy?  " 

"  People  like  you,"  said  Frank  smiling,  "  don't 
get  excited  over  people  like  me,  unless  there's  some- 
thing. ...  I  was  at  Cambridge,  you  know. 
I  know  the  dons  there,  and  — " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  doctor,  drawing  a 
long  breath.  "I  hadn't  meant  to.  I  know  it's 
mere  nonsense;  but — "  He  stopped  an  instant 
and  called  aloud :  "  Thomas !  Thomas !  " 

Thomas's  lean  head,  like  a  bird's,  popped  out 
from  a  window  in  the  kitchen  court  behind. 

"  Come  here  a  minute." 

Thomas  came  and  stood  before  them  with  a 
piece  of  wash-leather  in  one  hand  and  a  plated 
table-spoon  in  the  other. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  this  young  gentleman,"  said 

18 


266  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  doctor  deliberately,  "  what  you  told  me  on 
Wednesday  morning." 

Thomas  looked  doubtfully  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"  It  was  my  fancy,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Never  mind  about  that.     Tell  us  both." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  didn't  like  it.  Seemed  to  me  when 
I  looked  in—" 

( "  He  looked  in  on  us  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,"  explained  the  doctor.  "  Yes,  go  on, 
Thomas.") 

"  Seemed  to  me  there  was  something  queer." 

"Yes?"  said  the  doctor  encouragingly. 

"  Something  queer,"  repeated  Thomas  musingly. 
.  .  .  "  And  now  if  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  I'll 
have  to  get  back  — " 

The  doctor  waved  his  hands  despairingly  as 
Thomas  scuttled  back  without  another  word. 

"  It's  no  good,"  he  said,  "  no  good.  And  yet  he 
told  me  quite  intelligibly  — " 

Frank  was  laughing  quietly  to  himself. 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me  one  word  — " 

"  Don't  laugh,"  said  the  old  man  simply.  "  Look 
here,  my  boy,  it's  no  laughing  matter.  I  tell  you 
I  can't  think  of  anything  else.  It's  bothering  me." 

"But—" 

The  doctor  waved  his  hands. 

"  Well,"  he  said,   "  I  can  say  it  no  better.     It 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  267 

was  the  whole  thing.  The  way  you  looked,  the 
way  you  spoke.  It  was  most  unusual.  But  it  af- 
fected me  —  it  affected  me  in  the  same  way ;  and  I 
thought  that  perhaps  you  could  explain." 


(v) 

It  was  not  until  the  Monday  afternoon  that 
Frank  persuaded  the  doctor  to  let  him  go.  Dr. 
\Vhitty  said  everything  possible,  in  his  emphatic 
way,  as  to  the  risk  of  traveling  again  too  soon; 
and  there  was  one  scene,  actually  conducted  in  the 
menagerie  —  the  only  occasion  on  which  the  doc- 
tor mentioned  Frank's  relations  —  during  which  he 
besought  the  young  man  to  be  sensible,  and  to  allow 
him  to  communicate  with  his  family.  Frank  flatly 
refused,  without  giving  reasons. 

The  doctor  seemed  strangely  shy  of  referring 
again  to  the  conversation  in  the  garden ;  and,  for  his 
part,  Frank  shut  up  like  a  box.  They  seem  both 
to  have  been  extraordinarily  puzzled  at  one  another 
—  as  such  people  occasionally  are.  They  were  as 
two  persons,  both  intelligent  and  interested,  en- 
tirely divided  by  the  absence  of  any  common  lan- 
guage, or  even  of  symbols.  Words  that  each  used 
meant  different  things  to  the  other.  (It  strikes 
me  sometimes  that  the  curse  of  Babel  was  a  deeper 
thing  than  appears  on  the  surface.) 


268  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

The  Major  and  Gertie,  all  this  while,  were  in 
clover.  The  doctor  had  no  conception  of  what  six 
hours'  manual  work  could  or  could  not  do,  and,  in 
return  for  these  hours,  he  made  over  to  the  two  a 
small  disused  gardener's  cottage  at  the  end  of  his 
grounds,  some  bedding,  their  meals,  and  a  shilling 
the  day.  It  was  wonderful  how  solicitous  the  Major 
was  as  to  Frank's  not  traveling  again  until  it  was 
certain  he  was  capable  of  it ;  but  Frank  had  acquired 
a  somewhat  short  and  decisive  way  with  his  friend, 
and  announced  that  Monday  night  must  see  them  all 
cleared  out. 

The  leave-taking  —  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to 
gather  —  was  rather  surprisingly  emotional.  The 
doctor  took  Frank  apart  into  the  study  where  he  had 
first  seen  him,  and  had  a  short  conversation,  during 
which  one  sovereign  finally  passed  from  the  doctor 
to  the  patient. 

I  have  often  tried  to  represent  to  myself  exactly 
what  elements  there  were  in  Frank  that  had  such 
an  effect  upon  this  wise  and  positive  old  man.  He 
had  been  a  very  upsetting  visitor  in  many  ways.  He 
had  distracted  his  benefactor  from  a  very  important 
mouse  that  had  died  of  leprosy;  he  had  interfered 
sadly  with  working  hours ;  he  had  turned  the  house, 
comparatively  speaking,  upside  down.  Worse  than 
all,  he  had  —  I  will  not  say  modified  the  doctor's 
theories  —  that  would  be  far  too  strong  a  phrase; 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  269 

but  he  had,  quite  unconsciously,  run  full  tilt 
against  them;  and  finally,  worst  of  all,  he  had  done 
this  right  in  the  middle  of  the  doctor's  own  private 
preserve.  There  was  absolutely  every  element 
necessary  to  explain  Frank's  remarks  during  his 
delirium ;  he  was  a  religiously-minded  boy,  poisoned 
by  a  toxin  and  treated  by  the  anti-toxin.  What  in 
the  world  could  be  expected  but  that  he  should  rave 
in  the  most  fantastic  way,  and  utter  every  mad 
conception  and  idea  that  his  subjective  self  con- 
tained. As  for  that  absurd  fancy  of  the  doctor 
himself,  as  well  as  of  his  servant  that  there  was 
"something  queer"  in  the  room  —  the  more  he 
thought  of  it,  the  less  he  valued  it.  Obviously  it 
was  the  result  of  a  peculiar  combination  of  psycho- 
logical conditions,  just  as  psychological  conditions 
were  themselves  the  result  of  an  obscure  combina- 
tion of  toxin  —  or  anti-toxin  —  forces. 

Yet  for  all  that,  argue  as  one  may,  the  fact  re- 
mained that  this  dry  and  rather  misanthropic  sci- 
entist was  affected  in  an  astonishing  manner  by 
Frank's  personality.  (It  will  appear  later  on  in 
Frank's  history  that  the  effect  was  more  or  less 
permanent.) 

Still  more  remarkable  to  my  mind  was  the  very 
strong  affection  that  Frank  conceived  for  the  doc- 
tor. (There  is  no  mystery  coming:  the  doctor  will 
not  ultimately  turn  out  to  be  Frank's  father  in  dis- 


270  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

guise ;  Lord  Talgarth  still  retains  that  distinction. ) 
But  it  is  plainly  revealed  by  Frank's  diary  that  he 
was  drawn  to  this  elderly  man  by  very  much  the 
same  kind  of  feelings  as  a  son  might  have.  And 
yet  it  is  hardly  possible  to  conceive  two  characters 
with  less  in  common.  The  doctor  was  a  dogmatic 
materialist  —  and  remains  so  still  —  Frank  was  a 
Catholic.  The  doctor  was  scientific  to  his  finger- 
tips —  Frank  romantic  to  the  same  extremities ;  the 
doctor  was  old  and  a  confirmed  stay-at-home  — 
Frank  was  young,  and  an  incorrigible  gipsy.  Yet 
so  the  matter  was.  I  have  certain  ideas  of  my  own, 
but  there  is  no  use  in  stating  them,  beyond  saying 
perhaps  that  each  recognized  in  the  other  —  sub- 
consciously only,  since  each  professed  himself  ut- 
terly unable  to  sympathize  in  the  smallest  degree 
with  the  views  of  the  other  —  a  certain  fixity  of 
devotion  that  was  the  driving-force  in  each  life. 
Certainly,  on  the  surface,  there  are  not  two  theories 
less  unlike  than  the  one  which  finds  the  solution  of 
all  things  in  Toxin,  and  the  other  which  finds  it  in 
God.  But  perhaps  there  is  a  reconciliation  some- 
where. 

The  Major  and  Gertie  were  waiting  in  the  stable- 
yard  when  the  two  other  men  emerged.  The  Ma- 
jor had  a  large  bag  of  apples  —  given  him  by 
Thomas  at  the  doctor's  orders  —  which  he  was 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  271 

proceeding  to  add  to  Gertie's  load  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  the  two  others  came  out.  Frank  took 
them,  without  a  word,  and  slung  them  over  his  own 
back. 

The  doctor  stood  blinking  a  moment  in  the  strong 
sunshine. 

"  Well,  good-by,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "  Good  luck ! 
Remember  that  if  ever  you  come  this  way  again — " 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  said  Frank. 

He  held  out  his  disengaged  hand. 

Then  an  astonishing  thing  happened.  The  doc- 
tor took  the  hand,  then  dropped  it ;  threw  his  arms 
round  the  boy's  neck,  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks, 
and  hurried  back  through  the  garden  gate,  slam- 
ming it  behind  him.  And  I  imagine  he  ran  upstairs 
at  once  to  see  how  the  mice  were. 

Well,  that  is  the  whole  of  the  incident.  The 
two  haven't  met  since,  that  I  am  aware.  And  I 
scarcely  know  why  I  have  included  it  in  this  book. 
But  I  was  able  to  put  it  together  from  various  wit- 
nesses, documentary  and  personal,  and  it  seemed  a 
pity  to  leave  it  out 


CHAPTER  IV 

CO 

A  N  enormous  physical  weariness  settled  down 
on   Frank,    as   he   trudged   silently   with   the 
Major,  towards  evening,  a  week  later. 

He  had  worked  all  the  previous  day  in  a  farm- 
yard —  carting  manure,  and  the  like ;  and  though 
he  was  perfectly  well  again,  some  of  the  spring  had 
ebbed,  from  his  muscles  during  his  week's  rest. 
This  day,  too,  the  first  of  November,  had  been  ex- 
hausting. They  had  walked  since  daybreak,  after 
a  wretched  night  in  a  barn,  plodding  almost  in  si- 
lence, mile  after  mile,  against  a  wet  south-west 
wind,  over  a  discouraging  kind  of  high-road  that 
dipped  and  rose  and  dipped  again,  and  never  seemed 
to  arrive  anywhere. 

It  is  true  that  Frank  was  no  longer  intensely  de- 
pressed; quite  another  process  had  been  at  work 
upon  him  for  the  last  two  or  three  months,  as  will 
be  seen  presently;  but  his  limbs  seemed  leaden,  and 
the  actual  stiffness  in  his  shoulders  and  loins  made 
walking  a  little  difficult. 

They  were  all  tired  together.     They  did  not  say 
272 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  273 

much  to  one  another.  They  had,  in  fact,  said  all 
that  there  was  to  be  said  months  ago;  and  they  were 
reduced  —  as  men  always  are  reduced  when  a  cer- 
tain pitch  is  reached  —  to  speak  simply  of  the  most 
elementary  bodily  things  —  food,  tobacco  and 
sleep.  The  Major  droned  on  now  and  then  —  re- 
calling luxuries  of  past  days  —  actual  roofs  over 
the  head,  actual  hot  meat  to  put  in  the  mouth,  ac- 
tual cigars  —  and  Frank  answered  him.  Gertie 
said  nothing. 

She  made  up  for  it,  soon  after  dark  had  fallen, 
by  quite  suddenly  collapsing  into  a  hedge,  and  an- 
nouncing that  she  would  die  if  she  didn't  rest. 
The  Major  made  the  usual  remarks,  and  she  made 
no  answer. 

Frank  interposed  suddenly. 

"  Shut  up,"  he  said.  "  We  can't  stop  here.  I'll 
go  on  a  bit  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

And,  as  he  went  off  into  the  darkness,  leaving  his 
bundle,  he  heard  the  scolding  voice  begin  again, 
but  it  was  on  a  lower  key  and  he  knew  it  would 
presently  subside  into  a  grumble,  soothed  by  to- 
bacco. 

He  had  no  idea  as  to  the  character  of  the  road  that 
lay  before  him.  They  had  passed  through  a  few 
villages  that  afternoon,  whose  names  meant  nothing 


274  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

to  him,  and  he  scarcely  knew  why,  even,  they  were 
going  along  this  particular  road.  They  were  mov- 
ing southwards  towards  London  —  so  much  had 
been  agreed  —  and  they  proposed  to  arrive  there  in 
another  month  or  so.  But  the  country  was  unfa- 
miliar to  him,  and  the  people  seemed  grudging  and 
uncouth.  They  had  twice  been  refused  the  use  of 
an  outhouse  for  the  night,  that  afternoon. 

It  seemed  an  extraordinarily  deserted  road. 
There  were  no  lights  from  houses,  so  far  as  he 
could  make  out,  and  the  four  miles  that  had  been 
declared  at  their  last  stopping-place  to  separate 
them  from  the  next  village  appeared  already  more 
like  five  or  six.  Certainly  the  three  of  them  had  be- 
tween two  and  three  shillings,  all  told;  there  was 
no  actual  need  of  a  workhouse  just  yet,  but  natu- 
rally it  was  wished  to  spend  as  little  as  possible. 

Then  on  a  sudden  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  light 
burning  somewhere,  that  appeared  and  vanished 
again  as  he  moved,  and  fifty  yards  more  brought 
him  to  a  wide  sweep,  a  pair  of  gate-posts  with  the 
gate  fastened  back,  and  a  lodge  on  the  left-hand 
side.  So  much  he  could  make  out  dimly  through 
the  November  darkness ;  and  as  he  stood  there  hesi- 
tating, he  thought  he  could  see  somewhere  below 
him  a  few  other  lights  burning  through  the  masses 
of  leafless  trees  through  which  the  drive  went 
downhill. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  275 

He  knew  very  well  by  experience  that  lodge-keep- 
ers were,  taken  altogether,  perhaps  the  most  un- 
sympathetic class  in  the  community.  (They  live, 
you  see,  right  on  the  high  road,  and  see  human  na- 
ture at  its  hottest  and  Grossest  as  well  as  its  most 
dishonest.)  Servants  at  back  doors  were,  as  a  rule, 
infinitely  more  obliging;  and,  as  obviously  this  was 
the  entrance  to  some  big  country  house,  the  right 
thing  to  do  would  be  to  steal  past  the  lodge  on 
tiptoe  and  seek  his  fortune  amongst  the  trees. 
Yet  he  hesitated;  the  house  might  be  half  a  mile 
away,  for  all  he  knew;  and,  certainly  there 
was  a  hospitable  look  about  the  fastened-back 
gate. 

There  came  a  gust  of  wind  over  the  hills  behind 
him,  laden  with  wet.  .  .  .  He  turned,  went  up 
to  the  lodge  door  and  knocked. 

He  could  hear  someone  moving  about  inside,  and 
just  as  he  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  his 
double  tap  had  been  audible,  the  door  opened  and 
disclosed  a  woman  in  an  apron. 

"  Can  you  very  kindly  direct  me  — "  began  Frank 
politely. 

The  woman  jerked  her  head  sharply  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  house. 

"  Straight  down  the  hill,"  she  said.  "  Them's 
the  orders." 

"  Rut  — " 


276  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

It  was  no  good;  the  door  was  shut  again  in  his 
face,  and  he  stood  alone  in  the  dark. 

This  was  all  very  unusual.  Lodge-keepers  did 
not  usually  receive  "  orders  "  to  send  tramps,  with- 
out credentials,  on  to  the  house  which  the  lodge 
was  supposed  to  guard.  .  .  .  That  open  gate, 
then,  must  have  been  intentional.  Plainly,  how- 
ever, he  must  take  her  at  her  word;  and  as  he 
tramped  down  the  drive,  he  began  to  form  theories. 
It  must  be  a  fanatic  of  some  kind  who  lived  here, 
and  he  inclined  to  consider  the  owner  as  probably 
an  eccentric  old  lady  with  a  fad,  and  a  large  num- 
ber of  lap-dogs. 

As  he  came  nearer,  through  the  trees,  he  became 
still  more  astonished ;  for  as  the  branches  thinned, 
he  became  aware  of  lights  burning  at  such  enor- 
mous distances  apart  that  the  building  seemed  more 
like  a  village  than  a  house. 

Straight  before  him  shone  a  row  of  lighted 
squares,  high  up,  as  if  hung  in  air,  receding  in  per- 
spective, till  blocked  out  by  a  black  mass  which 
seemed  a  roof  of  some  kind;  far  on  the  left  shone 
some  kind  of  illuminated  gateway,  and  to  his  right 
another  window  or  two  glimmered  almost  beneath 
his  feet. 

Another  fifty  yards  down  the  winding  drive  dis- 
closed a  sight  that  made  him  seriously  wonder 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  277 

whether  the  whole  experience  were  real,  for  now 
only  a  few  steps  further  on,  and  still  lower  than 
the  level  at  which  he  was,  stood,  apparently,  a  por- 
ter's lodge,  as  of  a  great  college.  There  was  a 
Tudor  archway,  with  rooms  above  it  and  rooms  on 
either  side ;  a  lamp  hung  from  the  roof  illuminated 
the  dry  stone  pavement  within,  and  huge  barred 
gates  at  the  further  end,  shut  off  all  other  view. 
It  looked  like  the  entrance  to  some  vast  feudal  cas- 
tle, and  he  thought  again  that  if  an  eccentric  old 
lady  lived  here,  she  must  be  very  eccentric  indeed. 
He  began  to  wonder  whether  a  seneschal  in  a  belt 
hung  with  keys  would  presently  make  his  appear- 
ance: he  considered  whether  or  not  he  could  wind 
a  horn,  if  there  were  no  other  way  of  summoning 
the  retainers. 

When  at  last  he  tapped  at  a  small  interior  door, 
also  studded  and  barred  with  iron,  and  the  door 
opened,  the  figure  he  did  see  was  hardly  less  of  a 
shock  to  him  than  a  seneschal  would  have  been. 

For  there  stood,  as  if  straight  out  of  a  Christ- 
mas number,  the  figure  of  a  monk,  tall,  lean, 
with  gray  hair,  clean-shaven,  with  a  pair  of  merry 
eyes  and  a  brisk  manner.  He  wore  a  broad  leather 
l>and  round  his  black  frock,  and  carried  his  spare 
hand  thrust  deep  into  it. 


278  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

(n) 

The  monk  sighed  humorously. 

"  Another  of  them,"  he  said.     "  Well,  my  man  ?  " 

"  Please,  father  — " 

The  monk  closed  his  eyes  as  in  resignation. 

"  You  needn't  try  that  on,"  he  said.  "  Besides, 
I'm  not  a  father.  I'm  a  brother.  Can  you  remem- 
ber that  ?  " 

Frank  smiled  back. 

"  Very  well,  brother.     I'm  a  Catholic  myself." 

"  Ah !  yes,"  sighed  the  monk  briskly.     "  That's 
what    they    all    say.     Can    you    say    the    '  Divine 
Praises '  ?     Do  you  know  what  they  are  ?     . 
However,  that  makes  no  difference,  as — " 

"  But  I  can,  brother.  '  Blessed  be  God.  Blessed 
be  His  — " 

"But  you're  not  Irish?" 

"  I  know  I'm  not.     But  — " 

"  Are  you  an  educated  man  ?  However,  that's 
not  my  affair.  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?  " 

The  monk  seemed  to  take  a  little  more  interest  in 
him,  and  Frank  took  courage. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'm  an  educated  man.  My 
name's  Frank  Gregory.  I've  got  two  friends  out  on 
the  road  up  there  —  a  man  and  a  woman.  Their 
name's  Trust cott  —  and  the  woman — " 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  279 

"  No  good ;  no  good,"  said  the  monk.  "  No 
women." 

"  But,  brother,  she  really  can't  go  any  further. 
I'm  very  sorry,  but  we  simply  must  have  shelter. 
We've  got  two  or  three  shillings,  if  necessary — " 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you?"  said  the  monk 
keenly.  "  That's  quite  new.  And  when  did  you 
touch  food  last?  Yesterday  morning?  (Don't 
say  '  S'elp  me!'  It's  not  necessary.)" 

"  We  last  touched  food  about  twelve  o'clock  to- 
day. We  had  beans  and  cold  bacon,"  said  Frank 
deliberately.  "  We're  perfectly  willing  to  pay  for 
shelter  and  food,  if  we're  obliged.  But,  of  course, 
we  don't  want  to." 

The  monk  eyed  him  very  keenly  indeed  a  min- 
ute or  two  without  speaking.  This  seemed  a  new 
type. 

"  Come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  fetch  the  guest-master." 

It  was  a  very  plain  little  room  in  which  Frank 
sat,  and  seemed  designed,  on  purpose,  to  furnish  no 
temptation  to  pilferers.  There  was  a  table,  two 
chairs,  a  painted  plaster  statue  of  a  gray-bearded 
man  in  black  standing  on  a  small  bracket  with  a 
crook  in  his  hand;  a  pious  book,  much  thumb- 
marked,  lay  face  downwards  on  the  table  beside 
the  oil  lamp.  There  was  another  door  through 


280  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

which  the  monk  had  disappeared,  and  that  was  ab- 
solutely all.  There  was  no  carpet  and  no  curtains, 
but  a  bright  little  coal  fire  burned  on  the  hearth, 
and  two  windows  looked,  one  up  the  drive  down 
which  Frank  had  come,  and  the  other  into  some  sort 
of  courtyard  on  the  opposite  side. 

About  ten  minutes  passed  away  without  anything 
at  all  happening.  Frank  heard  more  than  one  gust 
of  rain-laden  wind  dash  against  the  little  barred 
window  to  the  south,  and  he  wondered  how  his 
friends  were  getting  on.  The  Major,  at  any  rate, 
he  knew,  would  manage  to  keep  himself  tolerably 
dry.  Then  he  began  to  think  about  this  place,  and 
was  surprised  that  he  was  not  surprised  at  running 
into  it  like  this  in  the  dark.  He  knew  nothing  at 
all  about  monasteries  —  he  hardly  knew  that  there 
were  such  things  in  England  (one  must  remember 
that  he  had  only  been  a  Catholic  for  about  five 
months),  and  yet  somehow,  now  that  he  had  come 
here,  it  all  seemed  inevitable.  (I  cannot  put  it  bet- 
ter than  that:  it  is  what  he  himself  says  in  his 
diary.) 

Then,  as  he  meditated,  the  door  opened,  and  there 
came  in  a  thin,  eager-looking  elderly  man,  dressed 
like  the  brother  who  followed  him,  except  that  over 
his  frock  he  wore  a  broad  strip  of  black  stuff,  some- 
thing like  a  long  loose  apron,  hanging  from  his 


XOXI-    OTHKR  GODS  281 

throat  to  his  feet,  and  his  head  was  enveloped  in  a 
black  hood. 

Frank  stood  up  and  bowed  with  some  difficulty. 
He  was  beginning  to  feel  stiff. 

"  Well,"  said  the  priest  sharply,  with  his  bright 
gray  eyes,  puckered  at  the  corners,  running  over 
and  taking  in  the  whole  of  Frank's  figure  from 
close-cut  hair  to  earthy  boots.  "  Brother  James 
tells  me  you  wish  to  see  me." 

"  It  was  Brother  James  who  said  so,  father," 
said  Frank. 

"What  is  it  you  want?" 

"  I've  got  two  friends  on  the  road  who  want 
shelter  —  man  and  woman.  We'll  pay,  if  neces- 
sary, but — " 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  interrupted  the  priest 
sharply.  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  The  name  I  go  by  is  Frank  Gregory." 

"  The  name  you  go  by,  eh  ?  .  .  .  Where 
were  you  educated  ?  " 

"  Eton  and  Cambridge." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  be  on  the  roads  ?  " 

"  That's  a  long  story,  father." 

"  Did  you  do  anything  you  shouldn't  ?  " 

"  No.     But  I've  been  in  prison  since." 

"  And  your  name's  Frank  Gregory.  .  .  .  F. 
G.,  eh?" 


19 


282  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Frank  turned  as  if  to  leave.  He  understood  that 
he  was  known. 

"  Well  —  good-night,   father  — " 

The  priest  turned  with  upraised  hand. 

"  Brother  James,  just  step  outside." 

Then  he  continued  as  the  door  closed. 

"  You  needn't  go,  Mr. —  er  —  Gregory.  Your 
name  shall  not  be  mentioned  to  a  living  being  with- 
out your  leave." 

"  You  know  about  me  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  do.  .  .  .  Now  be  sensible,  my 
dear  fellow;  go  and  fetch  your  friends.  We'll 
manage  somehow."  (He  raised  his  voice  and 
rapped  on  the  table. )  "  Brother  James  .  .  . 
go  up  with  Mr.  Gregory  to  the  porter's  lodge. 
Make  arrangements  to  put  the  woman  up  some- 
where, either  there  or  in  a  gardener's  cottage. 
Then  bring  the  man  down  here.  .  .  .  His 
name  ? ' ' 

"  Trustcott,"  said  Frank. 

"  And  when  you  come  back,  I  shall  be  waiting 
for  you  here." 


(m) 

Frank  states  in  his  diary  that  an  extraordinary 
sense  of  familiarity  descended  on  him  as,  half  an 
hour  later,  the  door  of  a  cell  closed  behind  Dom 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  283 

Hildebrand  Maple,  and  he  found  himself  in  a  room 
with  a  bright  fire  burning,  a  suit  of  clothes  waiting 
for  him,  a  can  of  hot  water,  a  sponging  tin  and  a 
small  iron  bed. 

I  think  I  understand  what  he  means.  Somehow 
or  other  a  well-ordered  monastery  represents  the 
Least  Common  Multiple  of  nearly  all  pleasant 
houses.  It  has  the  largeness  and  amplitude  of  a 
castle,  and  the  plainness  of  decent  poverty.  It  has 
none  of  that  theatricality  which  it  is  supposed  to 
have,  none  of  the  dreaminess  or  the  sentimentality 
with  which  Protestants  endow  it%  He  had  passed 
just  now  through,  first,  a  network  of  small  stair- 
ways, archways,  vestibules  and  passages,  and  then 
along  two  immense  corridors  with  windows  on  one 
side  and  closed  doors  on  the  other.  Everywhere 
there  was  the  same  quiet  warmth  and  decency  and 
plainness  —  stained  deal,  uncarpeted  boards,  a  few 
oil  pictures  in  the  lower  corridor,  an  image  or  two 
at  the  turn  and  head  of  the  stairs;  it  was  lighted 
clearly  and  unaffectedly  by  incandescent  gas,  and 
the  only  figures  he  had  seen  were  of  two  or  three 
monks,  with  hooded  heads  (they  had  raised  these 
hoods  slightly  in  salutation  as  he  passed),  each 
going  about  his  business  briskly  and  silently.  There 
was  even  a  cheerful  smell  of  cooking  at  the  end  of 
one  of  the  corridors,  and  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
two  or  three  aproned  lay  brothers,  busy  in  the  fire- 


284  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

light  and  glow  of  a  huge  kitchen,  over  great  copper 
pans. 

The  sense  of  familiarity,  then,  is  perfectly  intel- 
ligible: a  visitor  to  a  monastery  steps,  indeed,  into 
a  busy  and  well-ordered  life,  but  there  is  enough 
room  and  air  and  silence  for  him  to  preserve  his  in- 
dividuality too. 

As  soon  as  he  was  washed  and  dressed,  he  sat 
down  in  a  chair  before  the  fire ;  but  almost  immedi- 
ately there  came  a  tap  on  his  door,  and  the  some- 
what inflamed  face  of  the  Major  looked  in. 

"  Frankie  ?  "  he  whispered,  and,  reassured,  came 
in  and  closed  the  door  behind.  (He  looked  very 
curiously  small  and  unimportant,  thought  Frank. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  black  suit  that  had  been  lent 
him. ) 

"  By  gad,  Frankie  .  .  .  we're  in  clover,"  he 
whispered,  still  apparently  under  the  impression 
that  somehow  he  was  in  church.  "  There  are  some 
other  chaps,  you  know,  off  the  roads  too,  but  they'  re 
down  by  the  lodge  somewhere."  (He  broke  off 
and  then  continued. )  "  I've  got  such  a  queer  John- 
nie in  my  room  —  ah!  you've  got  one,  too." 

He  went  up  to  examine  a  small  plaster  statue  of 
a  saint  above  the  prie-dieu. 

"  It's  all  right,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Frank  sleepily. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  285 

"  And  there's  another  Johnnie's  name  on  the 
door.  The  Rev.  S.  Augustine,  or  something." 

He  tip-toed  back  to  the  fire,  lifted  his  tails,  and 
stood  warming  himself  with  a  complacent  but  nerv- 
ous smile. 

(Frank  regarded  him  with  wonder.) 

"  What  do  all  the  Johnnies  do  here?  "  asked  the 
Major  presently.  "  Have  a  rare  old  time,  I  expect. 
I  bet  they've  got  cellars  under  here  all  right.  Just 
like  those  chaps  in  comic  pictures,  ain't  it?" 

(Frank  decided  it  was  no  use  to  try  to  explain.) 

The  Major  babbled  on  a  minute  or  two  longer, 
requiring  no  answer,  and  every  now  and  then  hav- 
ing his  roving  eye  caught  by  some  new  marvel. 
He  fingered  a  sprig  of  yew  that  was  twisted  into  a 
crucifix  hung  over  the  bed.  ("  Expect  it's  one  of 
those  old  relics,"  he  said,  "  some  lie  or  other.") 
He  humorously  dressed  up  the  statue  of  the  saint 
in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  said :  "  Let  us  pray," 
in  a  loud  whisper,  with  one  eye  on  the  door.  And 
all  the  while  there  still  lay  on  him  apparently  the 
impression  that  if  he  talked  loud  or  made  any  per- 
ceptible sound  he  would  be  turned  out  again. 

He  was  just  beginning  a  few  steps  of  a  noiseless 
high-kicking  dance  when  there  was  a  tap  at  the 
door,  and  he  collapsed  into  an  attitude  of  weak- 
kneed  humility.  Dom  Hildebrand  came  in. 


286  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"If  you're  ready,"  he  said,  "  we  might  go  down 
to  supper." 

Frank  relates  in  his  diary  that  of  all  else  in  the 
monastery,  apart  from  the  church,  the  refectory 
and  its  manners  impressed  him  most.  (How  easy 
it  is  to  picture  it  when  one  has  once  seen  the  cere- 
monies!) 

He  sat  at  a  center  table,  with  the  Major  opposite 
(looking  smaller  than  ever),  before  a  cloth  laid 
with  knife,  spoon  and  forks.  All  round  the  walls 
on  a  low  dais,  with  their  backs  against  them,  sat 
a  row  of  perhaps  forty  monks,  of  every  age,  kind 
and  condition.  The  tables  were  bare  wood,  laid 
simply  with  utensils  and  no  cloths,  with  a  napkin  in 
each  place.  At  the  end  opposite  the  door  there  sat 
at  a  table  all  alone  a  big,  portly,  kindly-faced  man, 
of  a  startlingly  fatherly  appearance,  clean-shaven, 
gray-haired,  and  with  fine  features.  This  was  the 
Abbot.  Above  him  hung  a  crucifix,  with  the  single 
word  "  Sitio  "  beneath  it  on  a  small  black  label. 

The  meal  began,  however,  with  the  ceremony  of 
singing  grace.  The  rows  of  monks  stood  out,  with 
one  in  the  middle,  facing  the  Abbot,  each  with  his 
hood  forward  and  his  hands  hidden  in  his  scapular. 
It  was  sung  to  a  grave  tone,  with  sudden  intona- 
tions, by  the  united  voices  in  unison  —  blessing,  re- 
sponse, collect,  psalm  and  the  rest.  (Frank  could 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  287 

not  resist  one  glance  at  the  Major,  whose  face  of 
consternation  resembled  that  of  a  bird  in  the  com- 
pany of  sedate  cats.) 

Then  each  went  to  his  place,  and,  noiselessly,  the 
orderly  meal  began  and  continued  to  the  reading 
first  of  the  gospel,  and  then  of  a  history,  from  a 
pulpit  built  high  in  the  wall.  All  were  served  by 
lay  brothers,  girded  with  aprons;  almost  every 
movement,  though  entirely  natural,  seemed  ordered 
by  routine  and  custom,  and  was  distinguished  by  a 
serious  sort  of  courtesy  that  made  the  taking  of 
food  appear,  for  once,  as  a  really  beautiful,  august, 
and  almost  sacramental  ceremony.  The  great  hall, 
too,  with  its  pointed  roof,  its  tiled  floor,  its  white- 
wood  scrubbed  tables,  and  its  tall  emblazoned  win- 
dows, seemed  exactly  the  proper  background  —  a 
kind  of  secular  sanctuary.  The  food  was  plain  and 
plentiful:  soup,  meat,  cheese  and  fruit;  and  each  of 
the  two  guests  had  a  small  decanter  of  red  wine,  a 
tiny  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  napkin.  The  monks 
drank  beer  or  water. 

Then  once  more  followed  grace,  with  the  same 
ceremonial. 

When  this  was  ended,  Frank  turned  to  see  where 
Father  Hildebrand  was,  supposing  that  all  would 
go  to  their  rooms ;  but  as  he  turned  he  saw  the 
Abbot  coming  down  alone.  He  moved  on,  this 
great  man,  with  that  same  large,  fatherly  air,  but  as 


288  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

he  passed  the  two  guests,  he  inclined  slightly  to- 
wards them,  and  Frank,  with  a  glance  to  warn  the 
Major,  understanding  that  they  were  to  follow, 
came  out  of  his  place  and  passed  down  between  the 
lines  of  the  monks,  still  in  silence. 

The  Abbot  went  on,  turned  to  the  right,  and  as 
he  moved  along  the  cloister,  loud  sonorous  chant- 
ing began  behind.  So  they  went,  on  and  on,  up  the 
long  lighted  corridor,  past  door  after  door,  as  in 
some  church  procession.  Yet  all  was  obviously 
natural  and  familiar. 

They  turned  in  at  last  beneath  an  archway  to  the 
left,  went  through  a  vestibule,  past  a  great  stone 
of  a  crowned  Woman  with  a  Child  in  her  arms, 
and  as  they  entered  the  church,  the  Abbot  dipped 
his  finger  into  a  stoop  and  presented  it  to  Frank. 
Frank  touched  the  drop  of  water,  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  and  presented  again  his  damp  finger  to 
the  Major,  who  looked  at  him  with  a  startled  eye. 

The  Abbot  indicated  the  front  row  of  the  seats 
in  the  nave,  and  Frank  went  into  it,  to  watch  the 
procession  behind  go  past,  flow  up  the  steps,  and 
disappear  into  the  double  rows  of  great  stalls  that 
lined  the  choir. 

There  was  still  silence  —  and  longer  silence,  till 
Frank  understood. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  289 

(IV  I 

His  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  gloom  little  by 
little,  and  he  began  to  be  able  to  make  out  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  place  he  was  in.  Behind  him 
stretched  the  immense  nave,  its  roof  and  columns 
lost  in  darkness,  its  sides  faintly  illuminated  by  the 
glimmer  of  single  oil-lamps,  each  in  a  small 
screened-off  chapel.  But  in  front  of  him  was  the 
greater  splendor. 

From  side  to  side  across  the  entrance  to  the  choir 
ran  the  rood-screen,  a  vast  erection  of  brown  oak 
and  black  iron,  surmounted  by  a  high  loft,  from 
which  glimmered  down  sheaves  of  silvered  organ 
pipes,  and,  higher  yet.  in  deep  shadow,  he  could 
make  out  three  gigantic  figures,  of  which  the  center 
one  was  nailed  to  a  cross.  Beyond  this  began  the 
stalls  —  dark  and  majestic,  broken  by  carving  — 
jutting  heads  of  kings  and  priests  leaning  forward 
as  if  to  breathe  in  the  magnetism  of  that  immense 
living  silence  generated  by  forty  men  at  their 
prayers.  At  the  further  end  there  shone  out  faintly 
the  glory  of  the  High  Altar,  almost  luminous,  it 
seemed,  in  the  light  of  the  single  red  spark  that 
hung  before  it.  Frank  could  discern  presently  the 
gilded  figures  that  stood  among  the  candlesticks  be- 
hind, the  throne  and  crucifix,  the  mysterious  veiling 


29o  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

curtains  of  the  Tabernacle.  .  .  .  Finally,  in 
the  midst  of  the  choir,  stood  a  tall  erection  which 
he  could  not  understand. 

******* 

An  extraordinary  peace  seemed  to  descend  and 
envelop  him  as  he  looked  —  a  kind  of  crown  and 
climax  of  various  interior  experiences  that  were 
falling  on  him  now  —  for  the  last  few  weeks.  ( It 
is  useless  trying  to  put  it  into  words.  I  shall  hope 
to  do  my  best  presently  by  quoting  Frank  him- 
self.) There  was  a  sense  of  home-coming;  there 
was  a  sense  of  astonishing  sanity;  tfrere  was  a  sense 
of  an  enormous  objective  peace,  meeting  and  ratify- 
ing that  interior  peace  which  was  beginning  to  be 
his.  It  appeared  to  him,  somehow,  as  if  for  the 
first  time  he  experienced  without  him  that  which  up 
to  now  he  had  chiefly  found  within.  Certainly 
there  had  been  moments  of  this  before  —  not  merely 
emotional,  you  understand  —  when  heart  and  head 
lay  still  from  their  striving,  and  the  will  reposed  in 
Another  Will.  But  this  was  the  climax :  it  summed 
up  all  that  he  had  learned  in  the  last  few  months ;  it 
soothed  the  last  scars  away,  it  explained  and  an- 
swered —  and,  above  all,  correlated  —  his  experi- 
ences. No  doubt  it  was  the  physical,  as  well  as 
the  spiritual,  atmosphere  of  this  place,  the  quiet 
corridors,  the  warmth  and  the  plainness  and  the 
solidity,  even  the  august  grace  of  the  refectory  — 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  291 

all  these  helped  and  had  part  in  the  sensation.  Yet, 
if  it  is  possible  for  you  to  believe  it,  these  were  no 
more  than  the  vessels  from  which  the  heavenly 
fluid  streamed;  vessels,  rather,  that  contained  a  lit- 
tle of  that  abundance  that  surged  up  here  as  in  a 
fountain.  .  .  . 

Frank  started  a  little  at  a  voice  in  his  ear. 

"  When's  it  going  to  begin  ?  "  whispered  the  Ma- 
jor in  a  hoarse,  apprehensive  voice. 


(v) 

A  figure  detached  itself  presently  from  the  dark 
mass  of  the  stalls  and  came  down  to  where  they 
were  sitting.  Frank  perceived  it  was  Father  Hilde- 
brand. 

"  We're  singing  Mattins  of  the  Dead,  presently," 
he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  It's  All  Souls'  Eve.  Will 
you  stay,  or  shall  I  take  you  to  your  room  ?  " 

The  Major  stood  up  with  alacrity. 

"  I'll  stay,  if  I  may,"  said  Frank. 

"  Very  well.  Then  I'll  take  Mr.  Trustcott  up- 
stairs." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  ceremony  began. 

Here,  I  simply  despair  of  description.  I  know 
something  of  what  Frank  witnessed  and  perceived, 
for  I  have  been  present  myself  at  this  affair  in  a  re- 


292  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ligious  house;  but  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  able  to 
write  it  down. 

First,  however,  there  was  the  external,  visible, 
audible  service:  the  catafalque,  a  bier-like  erection, 
all  black  and  yellow,  guarded  by  yellow  flames  on 
yellow  candles  —  the  grave  movements,  the  almost 
monstrous  figures,  the  rhythm  of  the  ceremonies, 
and  the  wail  of  the  music  of  forty  voices  singing  as 
one  —  all  that  is  understood.  .  ... 

But  the  inner  side  of  these  things  —  the  reverse 
of  which  these  things  are  but  a  coarse  lining,  the 
substance  of  which  this  is  a  shadow  —  that  is  what 
passes  words  and  transcends  impressions. 

It  seemed  to  Frank  that  one  section,  at  any  rate, 
of  that  enormous  truth  at  which  he  had  clutched 
almost  blindly  when  he  had  first  made  his  submis- 
sion to  the  Church  —  one  chamber  in  that  House  of 
Life  —  was  now  flung  open  before  him,  and  he  saw 
in  it  men  as  trees  walking.  .  .  .  He  was  tired 
and  excited,  of  course;  he  was  intensely  imag- 
inative ;  but  there  are  some  experiences  that  a  rise 
of  temperature  cannot  explain  and  that  an  imagina- 
tion cannot  originate.  .  .  . 

For  it  seemed  to  him  that  here  he  was  aware  of 
an  immeasurable  need  to  which  those  ministrations 
were  addressed,  and  this  whole  was  countless  in  its 
units  and  clamant  in  its  silence.  It  was  as  a  man 
might  see  the  wall  of  his  room  roll  away,  beyond 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  293 

which  he  had  thought  only  the  night  to  lie,  and  dis- 
cern a  thronging  mass  of  faces  crying  for  help, 
pressing  upon  him,  urging,  yet  all  without  sound  or 
word.  He  attempts  in  his  diary  to  use  phrases  for 
all  this  —  he  speaks  of  a  pit  in  which  is  no  water, 
of  shadows  and  forms  that  writhe  and  plead,  of  a 
light  of  glass  mingled  with  fire;  and  yet  of  an  in- 
evitability, of  a  Justice  which  there  is  no  question- 
ing and  a  Force  that  there  is  no  resisting.  And, 
on  the  other  side,  there  was  this  help  given  by  men 
of  flesh  and  blood  like  himself  —  using  ceremonies 
and  gestures  and  strange  resonant  words. 
The  whole  was  as  some  enormous  orchestra  — 
there  was  the  wail  on  this  side,  the  answer  on  that 
—  the  throb  of  beating  hearts —  there  were  cli- 
maxes, catastrophes,  soft  passages,  and  yet  the  re- 
sult was  one  vast  and  harmonious  whole. 

It  was  the  catafalque  that  seemed  to  him  the 
veiled  door  to  that  other  world  that  so  manifested 
itself  —  seen  as  he  saw  it  in  the  light  of  the  yellow 
candles  —  it  was  as  the  awful  portal  of  death  itself; 
beneath  that  heavy  mantle  lay  not  so  much  a  Body 
of  Humanity  still  in  death,  as  a  Soul  of  Humanity 
alive  beyond  death,  quick  and  yet  motionless  with 
pain.  And  those  figures  that  moved  about  it,  with 
censor  and  aspersorium,  were  as  angels  for  tender- 
ness and  dignity  and  undoubted  power.  They  were 
men  like  himself,  yet  they  were  far  more;  and  they, 


294  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

too,  one  day,  like  himself,  would  pass  beneath  that 
pall  and  need  the  help  of  others  that  should  follow 
them.  .  .  ' . 

Something  of  this  is  but  a  hint  of  what  Frank 
experienced ;  it  came  and  went,  no  doubt,  in  gusts, 
yet  all  through  he  seems  to  have  felt  that  sense 
that  here  was  a  door  into  that  great  watching  world 
beyond  —  that  here,  in  what  is  supposed  by  the 
world  to  be  the  narrow  constraint  of  religion,  was 
a  liberty  and  an  outlook  into  realities  such  as  the 
open  road  and  nature  can  but  seldom  give.  But 
for  my  part,  I  can  no  more  follow  him  further  than 
I  can  write  down  the  passion  of  the  lover  and  the 
ecstasy  of  the  musician.  If  these  things  'could  be 
said  in  words,  they  would  have  been  said  long  ago. 
But  at  least  it  was  along  this  path  of  perception 
that  Frank  went  —  a  path  that  but  continued  the 
way  along  which  he  had  come  with  such  sure  swift- 
ness ever  since  the  moment  he  had  taken  his  sor- 
rows and  changed  them  from  bitter  to  sweet.  Some 
sentences  that  he  has  written  mean  nothing  to  me  at 
all.  .  .  . 

Only  this  I  see  clearly,  both  from  my  talks  with 
Father  Hildebrand  and  from  the  diary  which  Frank 
amplified  at  his  bidding  —  that  Frank  had  reached 
the  end  of  a  second  stage  in  his  journey,  and  that 
a  third  was  to  begin. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  295 

It  is  significant  also,  I  think,  in  view  of  what  is 
to  follow,  that  the  last  initiation  of  this  stage  should 
have  taken  place  on  such  an  occasion  as  this. 


) 

CHAPTER  V 


'  •  ^HERE  are  certain  moods  into  which  minds, 
very  much  tired  or  very  much  concentrated, 
occasionally  fall,  in  which  the  most  trifling  things 
take  on  them  an  appearance  of  great  significance. 
A  man  in  great  anxiety,  for  example,  will  regard 
as  omens  or  warnings  such  things  as  the  ringing  of 
a  bell  or  the  flight  of  a  bird.  I  have  heard  this 
process  deliberately  defended  by  people  who  should 
know  better.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  those  moods 
of  intense  concentration  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
states  of  soul  in  which  the  intuitive  or  mystical 
faculties  work  with  great  facility,  and  that  at  such 
times  connections  and  correlations  are  perceived 
which  at  other  times  pass  unnoticed.  The  events 
of  the  world  then  are,  by  such  people,  regarded  as 
forming  links  in  a  chain  of  purpose  —  events  even 
which  are  obviously  to  the  practical  man  merely  the 
effects  of  chance  and  accident.  It  is  utterly  im- 
possible, says  the  practical  man,  that  the  ringing  of 
a  bell,  or  the  grouping  of  tea-leaves,  or  the  partic- 
ular moment  at  which  a  picture  falls  from  a  wall, 
296 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  297 

can  be  anything  but  fortuitous ;  and  it  is  the  sign  of 
a  weak  and  superstitious  mind  to  regard  them  as 
anything  else.  There  can  be  no  purpose  or  se- 
quence except  in  matters  where  we  can  perceive 
purpose  or  sequence. 

Of  course  the  practical  man  must  be  right;  we 
imply  that  he  is  right,  since  we  call  him  practical, 
and  I  have  to  deplore,  therefore,  the  fact  that  Frank 
on  several  occasions  fell  into  a  superstitious  \vay 
of  looking  at  things.  The  proof  is  only  too  plain 
from  his  own  diary  —  not  that  he  interprets  the 
little  events  which  he  records,  but  that  he  takes 
such  extreme  pains  to  write  them  down  —  events, 
too,  that  are,  to  all  sensibly-minded  people,  almost 
glaringly  unimportant  and  insignificant. 

I  have  two  such  incidents  to  record  between  the 
the  travelers'  leaving  the  Benedictine  monastery  and 
their  arriving  in  London  in  December.  The  Major 
and  Gertie  have  probably  long  since  forgotten  the 
one  which  they  themselves  witnessed,  and,  indeed, 
there  is  no  particular  reason  why  they  should  re- 
member it.  Of  the  other  Frank  seems  to  have 
said  nothing  to  his  friends.  Both  of  them,  how- 
ever, are  perfectly  insignificant — they  concern,  re- 
spectively, only  a  few  invisible  singers  and  a  couple 
of  quite  ordinary  human  beings.  They  are  de- 
scribed with  a  wholly  unnecessary  wealth  of  de- 

in 


298  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

tail  in  Frank's  diary,  though  without  comment, 
and  I  write  them  down  here  for  that  reason,  and 
that  reason  only. 

The  first  was  as  follows: 

They  were  approaching  a  certain  cathedral  town, 
not  a  hundred  miles  from  London,  and  as  the  even- 
ing was  clear  and  dry,  though  frosty,  and  money 
was  low,  they  determined  to  pass  the  night  in  a 
convenient  brick-yard  about  half  a  mile  out  of  the 
town. 

There  was  a  handy  shed  where  various  imple- 
ments were  kept;  the  Major,  by  the  help  of  a  little 
twisted  wire,  easily  unfastened  the  door.  They 
supped,  cooking  a  little  porridge  over  a  small  fire 
which  they  were  able  to  make  without  risk,  and  lay 
down  to  sleep  after  a  pipe  or  two. 

Tramps  go  to  sleep  early  when  they  mean  busi- 
ness, and  it  could  not  have  been  more  than  about 
eleven  o'clock  at  njght  when  Frank  awoke  with  the 
sense  that  he  had  slept  long  and  deeply.  He  seems 
to  have  lain  there,  content  and  quiet  enough,  watch- 
ing the  last  ember  .dying  in  the  brazier  where  they 
had  made  their  fire.  .  .  .  There  was  presently 
a  stir  from  the  further  corner  of  the  shed,  a  match 
was  struck,  and  Frank,  from  his  improvised  pillow, 
beheld  the  Major's  face  suddenly  illuminated  by 
the  light  with  which  he  was  kindling  his  pipe  once 
more.  He  watched  the  face  with  a  sort  of  artistic 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  299 

interest  for  a  few  seconds  —  the  drooping  shadows, 
the  apparently  cavernous  eyes,  the  deep-shaded  bar 
of  the  mustache  across  the  face.  In  the  wavering 
light  cast  from  below  it  resembled  the  face  of  a  vin- 
dictive beast.  Then  the  Major  whispered,  between 
his  puffs: 

"  Frankie?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Oh!  you're  awake  too,  are  you?" 

"  Yes." 

A  minute  later,  though  they  had  spoken  only  in 
whispers,  Gertie  drew  a  long  sighing  breath  from 
her  corner  of  the  shed  and  they  could  hear  that  she, 
too,  sat  up  and  cleared  her  throat. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  job,"  said  the  Major  jovi- 
ally to  the  company  generally.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  us?" 

Frank  said  nothing.  He  lay  still,  with  a  serise 
of  extraordinary  content  and  comfort,  and  heard 
Gertie  presently  lie  down  again.  The  Major 
smoked  steadily. 

Then  the  singing  began. 

It  was  a  perfectly  still  night,  frost-bound  and 
motionless.  It  was  late  enough  for  the  sounds  of 
the  town  to  have  died  away  (cathedral  towns  go  to 
bed  early  and  rise  late),  and,  indeed,  almost  the 
only  sounds  they  had  heard,  even  three  or  four 


300  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

hours  before,  had  been  the  occasional  deliberate 
chime  of  bells,  like  a  meditative  man  suddenly  utter- 
ing a  word  or  two  aloud.  Now,  however,  every- 
thing was  dead  silent.  Probably  the  hour  had 
struck  immediately  before  they  awoke,  since  Frank 
remarks  that  it  seemed  a  long  time  before  four  notes 
tolled  out  the  quarter. 

The  singing  came  first  as  a  sensation  rather  than 
as  a  sound,  so  far  away  was  it.  It  was  not  at  once 
that  Frank  formulated  the  sense  of  pleasure  that  he 
experienced  by  telling  himself  that  someone  was 
singing. 

At  first  it  was  a  single  voice  that  made  itself 
heard  —  a  tenor  of  extraordinary  clarity.  The  air 
was  unknown  to  him,  but  it  had  the  character  of 
antiquity;  there  was  a  certain  pleasant  melancholy 
about  it;  it  contained  little  trills  and  grace-notes, 
such  as  —  before  harmony  developed  in  the  modern 
sense  —  probably  supplied  the  absence  of  chords. 
There  was  no  wind  on  which  the  sound  could  rise 
or  fall,  and  it  grew  from  a  thread  out  of  the  dis- 
tance into  clear  singing  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away. 

The  Major  presently  grunted  over  his  pipe  some 
expression  of  surprise;  but  Frank  could  say  noth- 
ing. He  was  almost  holding  his  breath,  so  great 
was  his  pleasure. 

The  air,  almost  regretfully,  ran  downhill  like  a 


NUNT.  01  i  IKK  CODS  301 

brook  approaching  an  inevitable  full  dnse;  and 
then,  as  the  last  note  was  reached,  a  chord  of  voices 
broke  in  with  some  kind  of  chorus. 

The  voices  were  of  a  quartette  of  men,  and  rang 
together  like  struck  notes,  not  loud  or  harsh,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  with  a  restrained  softness  that  must, 
I  suppose,  have  been  the  result  of  very  careful 
training.  It  was  the  same  air  that  they  were  re- 
peating, but  the  grace-notes  were  absent,  and  the 
four  voices,  in  chord  after  chord,  supplied  their 
place  by  harmony.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  what 
was  the  subject  of  the  song  or  even  whether  it 
were  sacred  or  secular,  for  it  was  of  that  period  — 
at  least,  so  I  conjecture  —  when  the  two  worlds 
were  one,  and  when  men  courted  their  love  and 
adored  their  God  after  the  same  fashion.  Only 
there  ran  through  all  that  air  of  sweet  and  austere 
melancholy,  as  if  earthly  music  could  do  no  more 
than  hint  at  what  the  heart  wished  to  express. 


Frank  listened  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy.  The  music 
was  nearer  now,  coming  from  the  direction  from 
which  the  three  travelers  had  themselves  come  this 
afternoon.  Presently,  from  the  apparent  dimin- 
uendo, it  was  plain  that  the  singers  were  past,  and 
were  going  on  towards  the  town.  There  was  no 
sound  of  footsteps;  the  Major  remarked  on  that, 


302  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

when  he  could  get  Frank  to  attend  a  few  minutes 
later,  when  all  was  over;  but  there  were  field  paths 
running  in  every  direction,  as  well  as  broad  stretches 
of  grass  beside  the  road,  so  the  singers  may  very 
well  have  been  walking  on  soft  ground.  (These 
points  are  dispassionately  noted  down  in  the  diary. ) 

The  chorus  was  growing  fainter  now ;  once  more 
the  last  slopes  of  the  melody  were  in  sight  —  those 
downhill  gradations  of  the  air  that  told  of  the 
silence  to  come.  Then  once  more,  for  an  instant, 
there  was  silence,  till  again,  perhaps  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  the  single  tenor  voice  began  da  capo. 
And  the  last  that  Frank  heard,  at  the  moment  before 
the  quarter  struck  and,  soft  and  mellow  though  it 
was,  jarred  the  air  and  left  the  ear  unable  to  focus 
itself  again  on  the  tiny  woven  thread  of  sound,  was, 
once  more  the  untiring  quartette  taking  up  the  mel- 
ody, far  off  in  the  silent  darkness. 

It  seems  to  me  a  curious  little  incident  —  this 
passing  of  four  singers  in  the  night;  it  might  have 
seemed  as  if  our  travelers,  by  a  kind  of  chance,  were 
allowed  to  overhear  the  affairs  of  a  world  other  than 
their  own  — and  the  more  curious  because  Frank 
seems  to  have  been  so  much  absorbed  by  it.  Of 
course,  from  a  practical  point  of  view,  it  is  almost 
painfully  obvious  what  is  the  explanation.  It  must 
have  been  a  quartette  from  the  cathedral  choir,  re- 
turning from  some  festivity  in  the  suburbs;  and  it 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  303 

must  have  happened  that  they  followed  the  same 
route,  though  walking  on  the  grass,  along  which 
Frank  himself  had  come  that  evening. 


The  second  incident  is  even  more  ordinary,  and 
once  again  I  must  declare  that  nothing  would  have 
induced  me  to  incorporate  it  into  this  story  had 
it  not  appeared,  described  very  minutely  in  the  sort 
of  log-book  into  which  Frank's  diary  occasionally 
degenerates. 

They  were  within  a  very  few  miles  of  the  out- 
skirts of  London,  and  December  had  succeeded 
November.  They  had  had  a  day  or  two  of  work 
upon  some  farm  or  other.  (I  have  not  been  able 
to  identify  the  place),  and  had  run  into,  and,  in- 
deed, exchanged  remarks  with  two  or  three  groups 
of  tramps  also  London  bound. 

They  were  given  temporary  lodgings  in  a  loft 
over  a  stable,  by  the  farmer  for  whom  they  worked, 
and  this  stable  was  situated  in  a  court  at  the  end 
of  the  village  street,  with  gates  that  stood  open 
all  day,  since  the  yard  was  overlooked  by  the  win- 
dows of  the  farmer's  living-house  —  and,  besides, 
there  was  really  nothing  to  steal. 

They  had  finished  their  work  in  the  fields   (I 


304  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

think  it  had  to  do  with  the  sheep  and  mangel- 
wurzels,  or  something  of  the  kind);  they  had  re- 
turned to  their  lodgings,  received  their  pay,  packed 
up  their  belongings,  and  had  already  reached  the 
further  end  of  the  village  on  their  way  to  London, 
when  Frank  discoyered  that  he  had  left  a  pair  of 
socks  behind.  This  would  never  do :  socks  cost 
money,  and  their  absence  meant  sore  feet  and  wea- 
riness; so  he  told  the  Major  and  Gertie  to  walk  on 
slowly  while  he  went  back.  He  would  catch  them 
up,  he  said,  before  they  had  gone  half  a  mile.  He 
hid  his  bundle  under  a  hedge  —  every  pound  of 
weight  made  a  difference  at  the  end  of  a  day's 
work  —  and  set  off. 

It  was  just  at  that  moment  between  day  and 
night  —  between  four  and  five  o'clock  —  as  he  came 
back  into  the  yard.  He  went  straight  through  the 
open  gates,  glancing  about,  to  explain  matters  to 
the  farmer  if  necessary,  but,  not  seeing  him,  went 
up  the  rickety  stairs,  groped  his  way  across  to  the 
window,  took  down  his  socks  from  the  nail  on 
which  he  had  hung  them  last  night,  and  came  down 
again. 

As  he  came  into  the  yard,  he  thought  he  heard 
something  stirring  within  the  open  door  of  the 
stable  on  his  right,  and  thinking  it  to  be  the  farmer, 
and  that  an  explanation  would  be  advisable,  looked 


NONK  OT1IKR  GODS  305 

At  first  he  saw  nothing,  though  he  could  hear  a 
horse  moving  about  in  the  loose-box  in  the  corner. 
Then  he  saw  a  light  shine  beneath  the  crack  of  the 
second  door,  beside  the  loose-box,  that  led  into  the 
farm-yard  proper;  and  the  next  instant  the  door 
opened,  a  man  came  in  with  a  lantern  obviously 
just  lighted,  as  the  flame  was  not  yet  burned  up,  and 
stopped  with  a  half-frightened  look  on  seeing  Frank. 
But  he  said  nothing. 

Frank  himself  was  just  on  the  point  of  giving 
an  explanation  when  he,  too,  stopped  dead  and 
stared.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  here 
before,  under  exactly  the  same  circumstances;  he 
tried  to  remember  what  happened  next,  but  he  could 
not.  .  .  . 

For  this  was  what  he  saw  as  the  flame  burned  up 
more  brightly. 

The  man  who  held  the  lantern  and  looked  at  him 
in  silence  with  a  half-deprecating  air  was  a  middle- 
aged  man,  bearded  and  bare-headed.  He  had 
thrown  over  his  shoulders  a  piece  of  sacking,  that 
hung  from  him  almost  like  a  robe.  The  light  that 
he  carried  threw  heavy  wavering  shadows  about  the 
stable,  and  Frank  noticed  the  great  head  of  a 
cart-horse  in  the  loose-box  peering  through  the  bars, 
as  if  to  inquire  what  the  company  wanted.  Then, 
still  without  speaking,  Frank  let  his  eyes  rove 
r«»und.  and  they  stopped  suddenly  at  the  sight  of 


306  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

yet  one  more  living  being  in  the  stable.  Next  to 
the  loose-box  was  a  stall,  empty  except  for  one 
occupant ;  for  there,  sitting  on  a  box  with  her  back 
to  the  manger  and  one  arm  flung  along  it  to  support 
her  weight,  was  the  figure  of  a  girl.  Her  head, 
wrapped  in  an  old  shawl,  leaned  back  against  her 
arm,  and  a  very  white  and  weary  face,  absolutely 
motionless,  looked  at  him.  She  had  great  eyes, 
with  shadows  beneath,  and  her  lips  were  half 
opened.  By  her  side  lay  a  regular  tramp's  bundle. 

Frank  looked  at  her  steadily  a  moment,  then  he 
looked  back  at  the  man,  who  still  had  not  moved 
or  spoken.  The  draught  from  the  door  behind 
blew  in  and  shook  the  flame  of  his  lantern,  and  the 
horse  sighed  long  and  loud  in  the  shadows  behind. 
Once  more  Frank  glanced  at  the  girl;  she  had  low- 
ered her  arm  from  the  manger  and  now  sat  looking 
at  him,  it  seemed,  with  a  curious  intentness  and  ex- 
pectancy. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Frank  bowed  a 
little,  almost  apologetically,  and  went  out. 

Now  that  was  absolutely  all  that  happened. 
Frank  says  so  expressly  in  his  diary.  He  did  not 
speak  to  them,  nor  they  to  him;  nor  was  any  ex- 
planation given  on  either  side.  He  went  out  across 
the  yard  in  silence,  seeing  nothing  of  the  farmer, 
but  hearing  a  piano  begin  to  play  beyond  the 
brightly  lighted  windows,  of  which  he  could  catch 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  307 

a  glimpse  over  the  low  wall  separating  the  yard 
from  the  garden.  He  walked  quickly  up  the  vil- 
lage street  and  caught  up  his  companions,  as  he 
had  said,  less  than  half  a  mile  further  on.  He  said 
nothing  to  them  of  his  experience  —  indeed,  what 
was  there  to  say  ?  —  but  he  must  have  written  it 
down  that  same  night  when  they  reached  their  next 
lodging,  and  written  it  down,  too,  with  that  minute- 
ness of  detail  which  surprised  me  so  much  when  I 
first  read  it. 

For  the  explanation  of  the  whole  thing  is  as 
foolishly  obvious  as  was  that  of  the  singing  that  the 
three  had  heard  in  the  suburbs  of  Peterborough. 
Obviously  a  couple  of  tramps  had  turned  into  this 
stable  for  shelter.  Perhaps  the  girl  was  the  man's 
daughter;  perhaps  his  wife;  perhaps  neither. 
Plainly  they  had  no  right  there  —  and  that  would 
explain  the  embarrassed  silence  of  the  two:  they 
knew  they  were  trespassing,  and  feared  to  be  turned 
away.  Perhaps  already  they  had  been  turned  away 
from,  the  village  inn.  But  the  girl  was  obviously 
tired  out,  and  the  man  had  determined  to  risk  it. 

That,  then,  was  the  whole  affair  —  commonplace, 
and  even  a  little  sordid.  And  yet  Frank  thought 
that  it  was  worth  writing  down! 


CHAPTER  VI 

An  extract,  taken  by  permission,  from  a  few 
pages  of  Frank  Guiseley's  diary.  These  pages  were 
written  with  the  encouragement  of  Dom  Hilde- 
brand  Maple,  OS.B.,  and  were  sent  to  him  later  at 
his  own  request. 


H 


E  told  me  a  great  many  things 
that  surprised  me.  For  in- 
stance, he  seemed  to  know  all  about  certain  ideas 
that  I  had  had,  before  I  told  him  of  them,  and  said 
that  I  was  not  responsible,  and  he  picked  out  one  or 
two  other  things  that  I  had  said,  and  told  me  that 
these  were  much  more  serious.  .  .  . 

"  I  went  to  confession  to  him  on  Friday  morn- 
ing, in  the  church.  He  did  not  say  a  great  deal 
then,  but  he  asked  if  I  would  care  to  talk  to  him 
aftenvards.  I  said  I  would,  and  went  to  him  in 
the  parlor  after  dinner.  The  first  thing  that  hap- 
pened was  that  he  asked  me  to  tell  him  as  plainly  as 
I  could  anything  that  had  happened  to  me  —  in  my 
soul,  I  mean  —  since  I  had  left  Cambridge.  So  I 
tried  to  describe  it. 

308 


NONK  OTHER  dODS  309 

"  I  said  that  at  first  things  went  pretty  well  in 
my  soul,  and  that  it  was  only  bodily  things  that 
troubled  me  —  getting  fearfully  tired  and  stiff,  be- 
ing uncomfortable,  the  food,  the  sleeping,  and  so 
on.  Then,  as  soon  as  this  wore  off  I  met  the  Major 
and  Gertie.  I  was  rather  afraid  of  saying  all  that 
I  felt  about  these ;  but  he  made  me,  and  I  told  him 
how  extraordinarily  I  seemed  to  hate  them  some- 
times, how  I  felt  almost  sick  now  and  then  when  the 
Major  talked  to  me  and  told  me  stories.  .  .  . 
The  thing  that  seemed  to  torment  me  most  during 
this  time  was  the  contrast  between  Cambridge  and 
Merefield  and  the  people  there,  and  the  company 
of  this  pair;  and  the  only  relief  was  that  I  knew  I 
could,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  chuck  them  whenever  I 
wanted  and  go  home  again.  But  this  relief  was 
taken  away  from  me  as  soon  as  I  understood  that 
I  had  to  keep  with  them,  and  do  my  best  somehow 
to  separate  them.  Of  course,  I  must  get  Gertie 
back  to  her  people  some  time,  and  till  that's  done  it's 
no  good  thinking  about  anything  else. 

"  After  a  while,  however  —  I  think  it  was  just 
before  I  got  into  trouble  with  the  police  —  I  began 
to  see  that  I  was  a  conceited  ass  for  hating  the 
Major  so  much.  It  was  absurd  for  me,  I  said,  to 
put  on  airs,  when  the  difference  between  him  and 
me  was  just  that  he  had  been  brought  up  in  one 
way  and  I  in  another.  I  hated  the  things  he  did  and 


310  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

said,  not  because  they  were  wrong,  but  because  they 
were  what  I  called  '  bad  form.'  That  was  really 
the  whole  thing.  Then  I  saw  a  lot  more,  and  it 
made  me  feel  miserable.  I  used  to  think  that 
it  was  rather  good  of  me  to  be  kind  to  ani- 
mals and  children,  but  I  began  to  see  that  it  was 
simply  the  way  I  was  made:  it  wasn't  any  effort 
to  me :  I  simply  '  saw  red  '  when  I  came  across 
cruelty.  And  I  saw  that  that  was  no  good. 

"  Then  I  began  to  see  that  I  had  done  absolutely 
nothing  of  any  good  whatever  —  that  nothing  had 
really  cost  me  anything;  and  that  the  things  I  was 
proud  of  were  simply  self-will  —  my  leaving  Cam- 
bridge, and  all  the  rest.  They  were  theatrical,  or 
romantic,  or  egotistical ;  there  was  no  real  sacrifice. 
I  should  have  minded  much  more  not  doing  them. 
I  began  to  feel  extraordinarily  small. 

"  Then  the  whole  series  of  things  began  that 
simply  smashed  me  up. 

"  First  there  was  the  prison  business.  That  came 
about  in  this  way : 

"  I  had  just  begun  to  see  that  I  was  all  wrong 
with  the  Major  —  that  by  giving  way  to  my  feelings 
about  him  (I  don't  mean  that  I  ever  showed  it,  but 
that  was  only  because  I  thought  it  more  dignified 
not  to!),  I  was  getting  all  wrong  with  regard  to 
both  him  and  myself,  and  that  I  must  do  something 
that  my  whole  soul  hated  if  it  was  to  be  of  any 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  311 

use.  Then  there  came  that  minute  in  the  barn, 
when  I  heard  the  police  were  after  us,  and  that 
there  was  really  no  hope  of  escape.  The  particular 
thing  that  settled  me  was  Gertie.  I  knew,  some- 
how, that  I  couldn't  let  the  Major  go  to  prison 
while  she  was  about.  And  then  I  saw  that  this 
was  just  the  very  thing  to  do,  and  that  I  couldn't 
be  proud  of  it  ever,  because  the  whole  thing  was 
so  mean  and  second-rate.  Well,  I  did  it,  and  it 
did  me  a  lot  of  good  somehow.  I  felt  really  rolled 
in  the  dirt,  and  that  little  thing  in  the  post-office 
afterwards  rubbed  it  in.  I  saw  how  chock-full  I 
must  be  of  conceit  really  to  mind  that,  as  I  did, 
and  to  show  off,  and  talk  like  a  gentleman. 

"  Then  there  came  the  priest  who  refused  to  help 
me.  That  made  me  for  a  time  perfectly  furious, 
because  I  had  always  said  to  myself  that  Catholics, 
and  especially  priests,  would  always  understand. 
But  before  I  got  to  York  I  saw  what  an  ass  I  had 
made  of  myself.  Of  course,  the  priest  was  per- 
fectly right  (I  saw  that  before  I  got  ten  yards 
away,  though  I  wouldn't  acknowledge  it  for  an- 
other five  miles).  I  was  a  dirty  tramp,  and  I 
talked  like  a  brazen  fool.  (I  remember  thinking 
my  'openness'  to  him  rather  fine  and  manly!) 
Well,  that  made  me  smaller  still. 

"  Then  a  sort  of  despair  came  on  me  when  the  po- 
lice got  me  turned  out  of  my  work  in  York.  I 


3i2  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

know  it  was  only  a  little  thing  (though  I  still  think 
it  unfair),  but  it  was  like  a  pebble  in  your  boot  when 
you're  already  going  lame  from  something  else. 

"  And  then  came  Jenny's  letter.  (I  want  to  write 
about  that  rather  carefully.) 

"  I  said  just  now  that  I  was  getting  to  feel  smaller 
and  smaller.  That's  perfectly  true,  but  there  was 
still  a  little  hard  lump  in  the  middle  that  would  not 
break.  Things  might  have  gone  crumbling  away 
at  me  for  ever,  and  I  might  have  got  smaller  still, 
but  they  wouldn't  have  smashed  me. 

"  Now  there  were  two  things  that  I  held  on  to 
all  this  time  —  my  religion  and  Jenny.  I  gave  them 
turns,  so  to  speak,  though  Jenny  was  never  absent. 
When  everything  religious  tasted  flat  and  dull  and 
empty,  I  thought  about  Jenny:  when  things  were 
better  —  when  I  had  those  two  or  three  times  I  told 
Father  Hildebrand  about  (.  .  .) — I  still  thought 
of  Jenny,  and  imagined  how  splendid  it  would 
be  when  we  were  both  Catholics  together  and 
married.  But  I  never  dreamed  that  Jenny  would 
ever  be  angry  or  disappointed.  I  wouldn't  talk 
about  her  to  anybody  ever,  because  I  was  so  abso- 
lutely certain  of  her.  I  knew,  I  thought,  that  the 
whole  world  might  crumble  away,  but  that  Jenny 
would  always  understand,  down  at  the  bottom,  and 
that  she  and  I  would  remain  . 

"  Well,  then  came  her  letter. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  313 

"  Honestly,  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  was  doing 
inside  for  the  next  week  or  so.  Simply  everything 
was  altered.  I  never  had  any  sort  of  doubt  that  she 
meant  what  she  said,  and  it  was  as  if  there  wasn't 
any  sun  or  moon  or  sky.  It  was  like  being  ill. 
Things  happened  round  me:  I  ate  and  drank  and 
walked,  but  the  only  thing  I  wanted  was  to  get 
away,  and  get  down  somewhere  into  myself  and 
hide.  Religion,  of  course,  seemed  no  good  at  all. 
I  don't  understand  quite  what  people  mean  by  '  con- 
solations '  of  religion.  Religion  doesn't  seem  to 
me  a  thing  like  Art  or  Music,  in  which  you  can  take 
refuge.  It  either  covers  everything,  or  it  isn't  re- 
ligion. Religion  never  has  seemed  to  me  (I  don't 
know  if  I'm  wrong)  one  thing,  like  other  things,  so 
that  you  can  change  about  and  back  again.  .  .  . 
It's  either  the  background  and  foreground  all  in 
one,  or  it's  a  kind  of  game.  It's  either  true,  or  it's 
a  pretense. 

"  Well,  all  this,  in  a  way,  taught  me  it  was  ab- 
solutely true.  Things  wouldn't  have  held  together 
at  all  unless  it  was  true.  But  it  was  no  sort  of  sat- 
isfaction. It  seemed  to  me  for  a  while  that  it  was 
horrible  that  it  was  true;  that  it  was  frightful  to 
think  that  God  could  be  like  that  —  since  this  Jenny- 
business  had  really  happened.  But  I  didn't  feel  all 
this  exactly  consciously  at  the  time.  I  seemed  as  if 

I  was  ill,  and  could  only  lie  still  and  watch  and  be  in 
21 


314  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

hell.  One  thing,  however,  Father  Hildebrand 
thought  very  important  (he  asked  me  about  it  par- 
ticularly) was  that  I  honestly  did  not  feel  any  re- 
sentment whatever  against  either  God  or  Jenny.  It 
was  frightful,  but  it  was  true,  and  I  just  had  to  lie 
still  inside  and  look  at  it.  He  tells  me  that  this 
shows  that  the  first  part  of  the  '  process,'  as  he 
called  it,  was  finished  (he  called  it  the  '  Purgative 
Way  ' ) .  And  I  must  say  that  what  happened  next 
seems  to  fit  in  rather  well. 

"  The  new  '  process '  began  quite  suddenly  when 
I  awoke  in  the  shepherd's  hut  one  morning  at  Ripon. 
The  instant  I  awoke  I  knew  it.  It  was  very  early 
in  the  morning,  just  before  sunrise,  but  there  was  a 
little  wood  behind  me,  and  the  birds  were  beginning 
to  chirp. 

"  It's  very  hard  to  describe  it  in  words,  but  the 
first  thing  to  say  is  that  I  was  not  exactly  happy  just 
then,  but  absolutely  content.  I  think  I  should  say 
that  it  was  like  this :  I  saw  suddenly  that  what  had 
been  wrong  in  me  was  that  I  had  made  myself  the 
center  of  things,  and  God  a  kind  of  circumference. 
When  He  did  or  allowed  things,  I  said,  '  Why  does 
He  ?  ' —  from  my  point  of  view.  That  is  to  say, 
I  set  up  my  ideas  of  justice  and  love  and  so  forth, 
and  then  compared  His  with  mine,  not  mine  with 
His.  And  I  suddenly  saw  —  or,  rather,  I  knew  al- 
ready when  I  awoke  —  that  this  was  simply  stupid. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  315 

Even  now  I  cannot  imagine  why  I  didn't  see  it  be- 
fore :  I  had  heard  people  say  it,  of  course  —  in  ser- 
mons and  books  —  but  I  suppose  it  had  meant  noth- 
ing to  me.  (Father  Hildebrand  tells  me  that  I  had 
seen  it  intellectually,  but  had  never  embraced  it 
with  my  will.)  Because  when  one  once  really  sees 
that,  there's  no  longer  any  puzzle  about  anything. 
One  can  simply  never  say  '  Why  ? '  again.  The 
thing's  finished. 

"  Now  this  '  process  '  (as  Father  H.  calls  it)  has 
gone  on  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner  ever  since. 
That  beginning  near  Ripon  was  like  opening  a  door 
into  another  country,  and  I've  been  walking  ever 
since  and  seeing  new  things.  All  sorts  of  things  that 
I  had  believed  as  a  Catholic  —  things,  I  mean,  which 
I  assented  to  simply  because  the  Church  said  so, 
have,  so  to  speak,  come  up  and  turned  themselves 
inside  out.  I  couldn't  write  them  down,  because 
you  can't  write  these  things  down,  or  even  put  them 
intelligibly  to  yourself.  You  just  see  that  they  are 
so.  For  instance,  one  morning  at  mass  —  quite 
suddenly  —  I  saw  how  the  substance  of  the  bread 
was  changed,  and  how  our  Lord  is  united  with  the 
soul  at  Communion —  of  course  it's  a  mystery 
(that's  what  I  mean  by  saying  that  it  can't  be  writ- 
ten down)  — but  I  saw  it  in  a  flash,  and  I  can  see 
it  still  in  a  sort  of  way.  Then  another  day  when 
the  Major  was  talking  about  something  or  other 


316  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

(I  think  it  was  about  the  club  he  used  to  belong  to 
in  Piccadilly),  I  understood  about  our  Lady  and 
how  she  is  just  everything  from  one  point  of  view. 
And  so  on.  I  had  that  kind  of  thing  at  Doctor 
Whitty's  a  good  deal,  particularly  when  I  was  get- 
ting better.  I  could  talk  to  him  all  the  time,  too,  or 
count  the  knobs  on  the  wardrobe,  or  listen  to  the 
Major  and  Gertie  in  the  garden  —  and  yet  go  on 
all  the  time  seeing  things.  I  knew  it  wasn't  any 
good  talking  to  Doctor  Whitty  himself  much,  though 
I  can't  imagine  why  a  man  like  that  doesn't  see  it 
all  for  himself. 

"  It  seems  to  me  most  extraordinary  now  that  I 
ever  could  have  had  those  other  thoughts  I  told 
Father  H.  about  —  I  mean  about  sins,  and  about 
wondering  whether,  after  all,  the  Church  was  actu- 
ally true.  In  a  sort  of  way,  of  course,  they  come 
back  to  me  still,  and  I  know  perfectly  well  I  must 
be  on  my  guard ;  but  somehow  it's  different. 

"  Well,  all  this  is  what  Father  H.  calls  the  '  Il- 
luminative Way/  and  I  think  I  understand  what  he 
means.  It  came  to  a  sort  of  point  on  All  Souls' 
Eve  at  the  monastery.  I  saw  the  whole  thing  then 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  not  only  Purgatory.  But 
I  will  write  that  down  later.  And  Father  H.  tells 
me  that  I  must  begin  to  look  forward  to  a  new 
'  process  ' —  what  he  calls  the  '  Way  of  Union.'  I 
don't  understand  much  what  he  means  by  that;  I 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  317 

don't  see  that  more  could  happen  to  me.  I  am  ab- 
solutely and  entirely  happy ;  though  I  must  say  that 
there  has  seemed  a  sort  of  lull  for  the  last  day  or 
two  —  ever  since  All  Souls'  Day,  in  fact.  Perhaps 
something  is  going  to  happen.  It's  all  right,  any- 
how. It  seems  very  odd  to  me  that  all  this  kind  of 
thing  is  perfectly  well  known  to  priests.  I  thought 
I  was  the  first  person  who  had  ever  felt  quite  like 
this. 

"  I  must  add  one  thing.  Father  H.  asked  me 
whether  I  didn't  feel  I  had  a  vocation  to  the  Re- 
ligious Life;  he  told  me  that  from  everything  he 
could  see,  I  had,  and  that  my  coming  to  the  mon- 
astery was  simply  providential. 

"  Well,  I  don't  agree,  and  I  have  told  him  so. 
I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  is  going  to  happen 
next ;  but  I  know,  absolutely  for  certain,  that  I  have 
got  to  go  on  with  the  Major  and  Gertie  to  East 
London.  Gertie  will  have  to  be  got  away  from  the 
Major  somehow,  and  until  that  is  done  I  mustn't  do 
anything  else. 

"  I  have  written  all  this  down  as  plainly  as  I  can, 
because  I  promised  Father  H.  I  would." 


PART  III 
CHAPTER  I 

S.  PARTINGTON  was  standing  at  the  door 
of  her  house  towards  sunset,  waiting  for  the 
children  to  come  back  from  school. 

Her  house  is  situated  in  perhaps  the  least  agree- 
able street  —  Turner  Road  —  in  perhaps  the  least 
agreeable  district  of  East  London  —  Hackney 
Wick.  It  is  a  disagreeable  district  because  it  isn't 
anything  in  particular.  It  has  neither  the  tragic 
gayety  of  Whitechapel  nor  the  comparative  refine- 
ment of  Clapton.  It  is  a  large,  triangular  piece  of 
land,  containing  perhaps  a  square  mile  altogether, 
or  rather  more,  approached  from  the  south  by  the 
archway  of  the  Great  Eastern  Railway,  defined  on 
one  side  by  the  line,  and  along  its  other  two  sides, 
partly  by  the  river  Lea  —  a  grimy,  depressed-look- 
ing stream  —  and  partly  by  the  Hackney  Marshes 
—  flat,  dreary  wastes  of  grass-grown  land,  useless 
as  building  ground  and  of  value  only  for  Saturday 
afternoon  recreations  of  rabbit  coursing  and  foot- 
ball. The  dismalness  of  the  place  is  beyond  descrip- 
tion at  all  times  of  the  year.  In  winter  it  is  bleak 


XONK  OTHER  GODS  319 

and  chilly;  in  summer  it  is  hot,  fly-infested,  and 
hideously  and  ironically  reminiscent  of  real  fields 
and  real  grass.  The  population  is  calculated  to 
change  completely  about  every  three  years,  and  I'm 
sure  I  am  not  surprised.  It  possesses  two  impor- 
tant blocks  of  buildings  besides  the  schools  —  a 
large  jam  factory  and  the  church  and  clergy-house 
of  the  Eton  Mission. 

Turner  Road  is  perhaps  the  most  hopeless  of  all 
the  dozen  and  a  half  of  streets.  (It  is  marked 
black,  by  the  way,  in  Mr.  Booth's  instructive  map. ) 
It  is  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long  and  perfectly 
straight.  It  is  intersected  at  one  point  by  another 
street,  and  is  composed  of  tall  dark  houses,  with  flat 
fronts,  perhaps  six  or  seven  stories  in  height.  It  is 
generally  fairly  silent  and  empty,  and  is  inhabited 
by  the  most  characteristic  members  of  the  Hackney 
Wick  community  —  quiet,  white- faced  men,  lean 
women,  draggled  and  sharp-tongued,  and  countless 
over-intelligent  children  —  all  of  the  class  that  sel- 
dom remain  long  anywhere  —  all  of  the  material 
out  of  which  the  real  criminal  is  developed.  No 
booths  or  stalls  ever  stand  here;  only,  on  Saturday 
nights,  there  is  echoed  here,  as  in  a  stone-lined  pit, 
the  cries  and  the  wheel-noises  from  the  busy  thor- 
oughfare a  hundred  yards  away  round  the  corner. 
The  road,  as  a  whole,  bears  an  aspect  of  desperate 
and  fierce  dignity;  there  is  never  here  the  glimpse  of 


320  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  garden  or  of  flowers,  as  in  Mortimer  Road,  a 
stone's  throw  away.  There  is  nothing  whatever  ex- 
cept the  tall,  flat  houses,  the  pavements,  the  lamp- 
posts, the  grimy  thoroughfare  and  the  silence.  The 
sensation  of  the  visitor  is  that  anything  might  hap- 
pen here,  and  that  no  one  would  be  the  wiser. 
There  is  an  air  of  horrible  discretion  about  these 
houses. 

Mrs.  Partington  was  —  indeed  is  (for  I  went  to 
see  her  not  two  months  ago)  — of  a  perfectly  de- 
nned type.  She  must  have  been  a  handsome  factory 
girl  —  dark,  slender,  and  perfectly  able  to  take  care 
of  herself,  with  thin,  muscular  arms,  generally  visi- 
ble up  to  the  elbow,  hard  hands,  a  quantity  of  rather 
untidy  hair  —  with  the  tongue  of  a  venomous  ora- 
tor and  any  amount  of  very  inferior  sentiment,  pa- 
triotic and  domestic.  She  has  become  a  lean, 
middle-aged  woman,  very  upright  and  very  strong, 
without  any  sentiment  at  all,  but  with  a  great  deal  of 
very  practical  human  experience  to  take  its  place. 
She  has  no  illusions  about  either  this  world  or  the 
next;  she  has  borne  nine  children,  of  which  three 
survive ;  and  her  husband  is  almost  uninterruptedly 
out  of  work.  However,  they  are  prosperous  (for 
Turner  Road),  and  have  managed,  so  far,  to  keep 
their  home  together. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  321 

The  sunset  was  framed  in  a  glow  of  smoky  glory 
at  the  end  of  the  street  down  which  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton  was  staring,  resembling  a  rather  angry  search- 
light turned  on  from  the  gates  of  heaven.  The 
street  was  still  quiet ;  but  already  from  the  direction 
of  the  Board-school  came  thin  and  shrill  cries  as 
the  swarm  of  children  exploded  in  all  directions. 
Mrs.  Partington  (she  would  have  said)  was  waiting 
for  her  children  —  Jimmy,  Maggie  and  'Erb  —  and 
there  were  lying  within  upon  the  bare  table  three 
thick  slices  of  bread  and  black  jam ;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  looking  out  for  her  lodgers,  who 
should  have  arrived  by  midday. 

Then  she  became  aware  that  they  were  coming, 
even  as  she  looked,  advancing  down  the  empty  street 
en  echelon.  Two  of  them  she  knew  well  enough  — 
they  had  lodged  with  her  before ;  but  the  third  was 
to  be  a  stranger,  and  she  was  already  interested  in 
him  —  the  Major  had  hinted  at  wonderful  mys- 
teries. ,  .  . 

So  she  shaded  her  eyes  against  the  cold  glare  and 
watched  them  carefully,  with  that  same  firm,  reso- 
lute face  with  which  she  always  looked  out  upon 
the  world;  and  even  as,  presently,  she  exchanged 
that  quick,  silent  nod  of  recognition  with  the  Major 
and  Gertie,  still  she  watched  the  brown-faced, 
shabby  young  man  who  came  last,  carrying  his  bun- 
dle and  walking  a  little  lame. 


322  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  You're  after  your  time,"  she  said  abruptly. 
The  Major  began  his  explanations,  but  she  cut 
them  short  and  led  the  way  into  the  house. 


(n) 

I  find  it  very  difficult  to  record  accurately  the  im- 
pression that  Frank  made  upon  Mrs.  Partington; 
but  that  the  impression  was  deep  and  definite  became 
perfectly  clear  to  me  from  her  conversation.  He 
hardly  spoke  at  all,  she  said,  and  before  he  got  work 
at  the  jam  factory  he  went  out  for  long,  lonely  walks 
across  the  marshes.  He  and  the  Major  slept  to- 
gether, it  seemed,  in  one  room,  and  Gertie,  tempo- 
rarily with  the  children  and  Mrs.  Partington  in  an- 
other. (Mr.  Partington,  at  this  time,  happened  to 
be  away  on  one  of  his  long  absences.)  At  meals 
Frank  was  always  quiet  and  well-behaved,  yet  not 
ostentatiously.  Mrs.  Partington  found  no  fault 
with  him  in  that  way.  He  would  talk  to  the  chil- 
dren a  little  before  they  went  to  school,  and  would 
meet  them  sometimes  on  their  way  back  from  school ; 
and  all  three  of  them  conceived  for  him  an  immense 
and  indescribable  adoration.  All  this,  however, 
would  be  too  long  to  set  down  in  detail. 

It  seems  to  have  been  a  certain  air  of  pathos 
which  Mrs.  Partington  herself  cast  around  him, 
which  affected  her  the  most,  and  I  imagine  her  feel- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  323 

ing  to  have  been  largely  motherly.  There  was, 
however,  another  element  very  obviously  visible, 
which,  in  anyone  but  Mrs.  Partington,  I  should  call 
reverence.  .  .  .  She  told  me  that  she  could  not 
imagine  why  he  was  traveling  with  the  Major  and 
Gertie,  so  she  at  least  understood  something  of  the 
gulf  between  them. 

So  the  first  week  crept  by,  bringing  us  up  to  the 
middle  of  December. 

It  was  on  the  Friday  night  that  Frank  came  back 
with  the  announcement  that  he  was  to  go  to  work 
at  the  jam  factory  on  Monday.  There  was  a  great 
pressure,  of  course,  owing  to  the  approach  of  Christ- 
mas, and  Frank  was  to  be  given  joint  charge  of  a 
van.  The  work  would  last,  it  seemed,  at  any  rate, 
for  a  week  or  two. 

"  You'll  have  to  mind  your  language,"  said  the 
Major  jocosely.  (He  was  sitting  in  the  room  where 
the  cooking  was  done  «nd  where,  by  the  way,  the 
entire  party,  with  the  exception  of  the  two  men, 
slept ;  and,  at  this  moment,  had  his  feet  on  the  low 
mantelshelf  between  the  saucepan  and  Jimmy's  cap. ) 

"Eh?  "said  Frank. 

"  No  language  allowed  there,"  said  the  Major. 
"  They're  damn  particular." 

Frank  put  his  cap  down  and  took  his  seat  on  the 
bed. 


324  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Where's  Gertie?  "  he  asked.  ("  Yes,  come  on, 
Jimmie.") 

Jimmie  crept  up  beside  him,  looking  at  him  with 
big  black,  reverential  eyes.  Then  he  leaned  against 
him  with  a  quick  smile  and  closed  his  eyes  ecstatic- 
ally. Frank  put  an  arm  round  the  boy  to  support 
him. 

"  Oh !  Gertie's  gone  to  see  a  friend,"  said  the 
Major.  "  Did  you  want  her?  " 

Frank  said  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Partington  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  swiftly. 

Mrs.  Partington  had  gathered  a  little  food  for 
thought  during  the  last  few  days.  It  had  become 
perfectly  evident  to  her  that  the  girl  was  very  much 
in  love  with  this  young  man,  and  that  while  this 
young  man  either  was,  or  affected  to  be,  ignorant  of 
it,  the  Major  was  not.  Gertie  had  odd  silences 
when  Frank  came  into  the  room,  or  yet  more  odd 
volubilities,  and  Mrs.  Partington  was  not  quite  sure 
of  the  Major's  attitude.  This  officer  and  her  hus- 
band had  had  dealings  together  in  the  past  of  a  na- 
ture which  I  could  not  quite  determine  (indeed,  the 
figure  of  Mr.  Partington  is  still  a  complete  mystery 
to  me,  and  rather  a  formidable  mystery)  ;  and  I 
gather  that  Mrs.  Partington  had  learned  from  her 
husband  that  the  Major  was  not  simply  negligible. 
She  knew  him  for  a  blackguard,  but  she  seems  to 
have  been  uncertain  of  what  kind  was  this  black- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  325 

guardism  —  whether  of  the  strong  or  the  weak  va- 
riety. She  was  just  a  little  uncomfortable,  there- 
fore, as  to  the  significance  of  Gertie;  and  had 
already  wondered  more  than  once  whether  or  no 
she  should  say  a  motherly  word  to  the  young 
man. 

There  came  a  sound  of  footsteps  up  the  street 
as  Mrs.  Partington  ironed  a  collar  of  Jimmie's  on 
the  dining-room  table,  and  laid  down  the  iron  as  a 
tap  fell  on  the  door.  The  Major  took  out  his  pipe 
and  began  to  fill  it  as  she  went  out  to  see  who  was 
knocking. 

"Oh!  good  evening,  Mrs.  Partington,"  sounded 
in  a  clear,  high-bred  voice  from  the  street  door. 
"  May  I  come  in  for  a  minute  or  two  ?  I  heard 
you  had  lodgers,  and  I  thought  perhaps  — 

"  Well,  sir,  we're  rather  upside-down  just  now  — 
and  — " 

"  Oh !  I  won't  disturb  you  more  than  a  minute," 
came  the  other  voice  again.  There  were  footsteps 
in  the  passage,  and  the  next  instant,  past  the  unwill- 
ing hostess,  there  came  a  young,  fresh-colored 
clergyman,  carrying  a  silk  hat,  into  the  lamplight  of 
the  kitchen.  Frank  stood  up  instantly,  and  the  Ma- 
jor went  so  far  as  to  take  down  his  feet.  Then  he, 
too,  stood  up. 

"  Good  evening!  "  said  the  clergyman.     "  May  I 


326  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

just  come  in  for  a  minute  or  two  ?  I  heard  you  had 
come,  and  as  it's  in  my  district  —  May  I  sit  down. 
Mrs.  Partington?" 

Mrs.  Partington  with  sternly  knit  lips,  swept  a 
brown  teapot,  a  stocking,  a  comb,  a  cup  and  a 
crumby  plate  off  the  single  unoccupied  chair,  and  set 
it  a  little  forward  near  the  fire.  Clergymen  were,  to 
her  mind,  one  of  those  mysterious  dispensations  of 
the  world  for  which  there  was  no  adequate  ex- 
planation at  all  —  like  policemen  and  men's  gam- 
blings and  horse-races.  There  they  were,  and  there 
was  no  more  to  be  said.  They  were  mildly  useful 
for  entertaining  the  children  and  taking  them  to 
Southend,  and  in  cases  of  absolute  despair  they 
could  be  relied  upon  for  soup-tickets  or  even  half- 
crowns;  but  the  big  mysterious  church,  with  its 
gilded  screen,  its  curious  dark  glass,  and  its  white 
little  side-chapel,  with  the  Morris  hangings,  the 
great  clergy-house,  the  ladies,  the  parish  magazine 
and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  these  were  simply  inexplica- 
ble. Above  all  inexplicable  was  the  passion  dis- 
played for  district-visiting  —  that  strange  impulse 
that  drove  four  highly-cultivated  young  men  in 
black  frock-coats  and  high  hats  and  ridiculous  little 
collars  during  five  afternoons  in  the  week  to  knock 
at  door  after  door  all  over  the  district  and  conduct 
well-mannered  conversations  with  bored  but  polite 
mothers  of  families.  It  was  one  of  the  phenomena 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  327 

that  had  to  be  accepted.  She  supposed  it  stood  for 
something  beyond  her  perceptions. 

"  I  thought  1  must  come  in  and  make  your  ac- 
quaintance," said  the  clergyman,  nursing  his  hat  and 
smiling  at  the  company.  (He,  too,  occasionally 
shared  Mrs.  Partington's  wonder  as  to  the  object 
of  all  this;  but  he,  too,  submitted  to  it  as  part  of  the 
system.)  "People  come  and  go  so  quickly,  you 
know  — " 

"  Very  pleased  to  see  a  clergyman,"  said  the  Ma- 
jor smoothly.  "  No  objection  to  smoke,  sir,  I  pre- 
sume?" He  indicated  his  pipe. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  clergyman.  "  In  fact,  I 
smoke  myself;  and  if  Mrs.  Partington  will  allow 
me — "  He  produced  a  small  pink  and  gilded 
packet  of  Cinderellas.  (I  think  he  thought  it 
brought  him  vaguely  nearer  the  people  to  smoke  Cin- 
derellas.) 

"  Oh !  no  objection  at  all,  sir,"  put  in  Mrs.  Part- 
ington, still  a  little  grimly.  (She  was  still  secretly 
resenting  being  called  upon  at  half-past  six.  You 
were  usually  considered  immune  from  this  kind  of 
thing  after  five  o'clock.) 

"  So  I  thought  I  must  just  look  in  and  catch  you 
one  evening,"  explained  the  clergyman  once  more, 
"  and  tell  you  that  we're  your  friends  here  —  the 
clergy,  you  know  —  and  about  the  church  and  all 
that." 


328  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

He  was  an  extremely  conscientious  young  man  — 
this  Mr.  Parham-Carter  —  an  old  Etonian,  of 
course,  and  now  in  his  first  curacy.  It  was  all 
pretty  bewildering  to  him,  too,  this  great  and  splen- 
did establishment,  the  glorious  church  by  Bodley, 
with  the  Magnificat  in  Gothic  lettering  below  the 
roof,  the  well-built  and  furnished  clergy -house,  the 
ladies'  house,  the  zeal,  the  self-devotion,  the  paro- 
chial machinery,  the  Band  of  Hope,  the  men's  and 
boys'  clubs,  and,  above  all,  the  furious  district-vis- 
iting. Of  course,  it  produced  results,  it  kept  up  the 
standards  of  decency  and  civilization  and  ideals;  it 
was  a  weight  in  the  balances  on  the  side  of  right  and 
good  living;  the  clubs  kept  men  from  the  public- 
house  to  some  extent,  and  made  it  possible  for  boys 
to  grow  up  with  some  chance  on  their  side.  Yet 
he  wondered,  in  fits  of  despondency,  whether  there 
were  not  something  wrong  somewhere.  .  .  . 
But  he  accepted  it :  it  was  the  approved  method,  and 
he  himself  was  a  learner,  not  a  teacher. 

"  Very  kind  of  you,  sir,"  said  the  Major,  replacing 
his  feet  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "  And  at  what  time 
are  the  services  on  Sunday?  " 

The  clergyman  jumped.  He  was  not  accustomed 
to  that  sort  of  question. 

"I     .     .     ."he  began. 

"  I'm  a  strong  Churchman,  sir,"  said  the  Major. 
"  And  even  if  I  were  not,  one  must  set  an  example, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  329 

you  know.  1  may  be  narrow-minded,  but  I'm  par- 
ticular about  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  shall  be  with 
you  on  Sunday." 

He  nodded  reassuringly  at  Mr.  Parham-Carter. 

l<  Well,  we  have  morning  prayer  at  ten-thirty  next 
Sunday,  and  the  Holy  Eucharist  at  eleven  —  and,  of 
course,  at  eight." 

"  No  vestments,  I  hope  ?  "  said  the  Major  sternly. 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  faltered  a  little.  Vestments 
were  not  in  use,  but  to  his  regret. 

"  Well,  we  don't  use  vestments,"  he  said,  "  but — 

The  Major  resumed  his  pipe  with  a  satisfied  air. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  Now,  I'm  not 
bigoted  —  my  friend  here's  a  Roman  Catholic, 
but—" 

The  clergyman  looked  up  sharply,  and  for  the 
first  time  became  consciously  conscious  of  the  sec- 
ond man.  Frank  had  sat  back  again  on  the  bed, 
with  Jimmie  beside  him,  and  was  watching  the  little 
scene  quietly  and  silently,  and  the  clergyman  met  his 
eyes  full.  Some  vague  shock  thrilled  through  him ; 
Frank's  clean-shaven  brown  face  seemed  somehow 
familiar  —  or  was  it  something  else  ? 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  considered  the  point  for  a 
little  while  in  silence,  only  half  attending  to  the  Ma- 
ior,  who  was  now  announcing  his  views  on  the  Es- 
tablishment and  the  Reformation  settlement.  Frank 
said  nothing  at  all,  and  there  grew  on  the  clergyman 


330  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  desire  to  hear  his  voice.  He  made  an  opportunity 
at  last. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  he  said  to  the  Major;  "  and  you  — 
I  don't  know  your  name  ?  " 

"  Gregory,  sir,"  said  Frank.  And  again  a  little 
shock  thrilled  Mr.  Parham-Carter.  The  voice  was 
the  kind  of  thing  he  had  expected  from  that  face. 

It  was  about  ten  minutes  later  that  the  clergyman 
thought  it  was  time  to  go.  -  He  had  the  Major's 
positive  promise  to  attend  at  least  the  evening  service 
on  the  following  Sunday  —  a  promise  he  did  not 
somehow  very  much  appreciate  —  but  he  had  made 
no  progress  with  Frank.  He  shook  hands  all  round 
very  carefully,  told  Jimmie  not  to  miss  Sunday- 
school,  and  publicly  commended  Maggie  for  a  recita- 
tion she  had  accomplished  at  the  Band  of  Hope  on 
the  previous  evening;  and  then  went  out,  accom- 
panied by  Mrs.  Partington,  still  silent,  as  far  as  the 
door.  But  as  he  actually  went  out,  someone  pushed 
by  the  woman  and  came  out  into  the  street. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  a  minute  ?  "  said  the  strange 
young  man,  dropping  the  "  sir."  "  I'll  walk  with 
you  as  far  as  the  clergy-house  if  you'll  let  me." 

When  they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  house  Frank 
began. 


XOXIi  OTHER  GOUS  331 

"You're  Parham-Carter,  aren't  you?"  he  said. 
"  Of  Hales'." 

The  other  nodded.  (Things  were  beginning  to 
resolve  themselves  in  his  mind.) 

"  Well,  will  you  give  me  your  word  not  to  tell  a 
soul  I'm  here,  and  I'll  tell  you  who  I  am?  You've 
forgotten  me,  I  see.  But  I'm  afraid  you  may  re- 
member. D'you  see  ?  " 

"  All  right." 

"  I'm  Guiseley,  of  Drew's.  We  were  in  the  same 
division  once  —  up  to  Rawlins.  Do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"Good  Lord!     But—" 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  don't  let's  go  into  that.  I've 
not  done  anything  I  shouldn't.  That's  not  the  rea- 
son I'm  like  this.  It's  just  turned  out  so.  And 
there's  something  else  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about. 
When  can  I  come  and  see  you  privately?  I'm  going 
to  begin  work  to-morrow  at  the  jam  factory." 

The  other  man  clutched  at  his  whirling  faculties. 

"  To-night  —  at  ten.     Will  that  do  ?  " 

"  All  right.  What  am  I  to  say  —  when  I  ring 
the  bell,  I  mean?  " 

"  Just  ask  for  me.  They'll  show  you  straight  up 
to  my  room." 

"  All  right,"  said  Frank,  and  was  gone. 


332  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

(ni) 

Mr.  Parham-Carter's  room  in  the  clergy-house 
was  of  the  regular  type  —  very  comfortable  and 
pleasing  to  the  eye,  as  it  ought  to  be  for  a  young 
man  working  under  such  circumstances;  not  really 
luxurious ;  pious  and  virile.  The  walls  were  a  rosy 
distemper,  very  warm  and  sweet,  and  upon  them, 
above  the  low  oak  book-cases,  hung  school  and  col- 
lege groups,  discreet  sporting  engravings,  a  glorious 
cathedral  interior,  and  the  Sistine  Madonna  over  the 
mantelpiece.  An  oar  hung  all  along  one  ceiling, 
painted  on  the  blade  with  the  arms  of  an  Oxford 
college.  There  was  a  small  prie-dieu,  surmounted 
by  a  crucifix  of  Ober-Ammergau  workmanship; 
there  was  a  mahogany  writing-table  with  a  revolving 
chair  set  before  it;  there  were  a  couple  of  deep 
padded  arm-chairs,  a  pipe-rack,  and  a  row  of  photo- 
graphs—  his  mother  in  evening  dress,  a  couple  of 
sisters,  with  other  well-bred-looking  relations.  Al- 
together, with  the  curtains  drawn  and  the  fire  blaz- 
ing, it  was  exactly  the  kind  of  room  that  such  a 
wholesome  young  man  ought  to  have  in  the  East  of 
London. 

Frank  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  as  Mr.  Par- 
ham-Carter  came  in  a  minute  or  two  after  ten 
o'clock,  bearing  a  small  tray  with  a  covered  jug,  two 
cups  and  a  plate  of  cake. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  333 

"  Good-evening  again/'  said  the  clergyman. 
"Have  some  cocoa?  I  generally  bring  mine  up 
here.  ...  Sit  down.  Make  yourself  comfort- 
able." 

Frank  said  nothing.  He  sat  down.  He  put  his 
cap  on  the  floor  by  his  chair  and  leaned  back.  The 
other,  with  rather  nervous  movements,  set  a  steam- 
ing cup  by  his  side,  and  a  small  silver  box  of  cig- 
arettes, matches  and  an  ash-tray.  Then  he  sat  down 
himself,  took  a  long  pull  at  his  cocoa,  and  waited 
with  a  certain  apprehensiveness. 

"  Who  else  is  here  ?  "  asked  Frank  abruptly. 

The  other  ran  through  the  three  names,  with  a 
short  biography  of  each.  Frank  nodded,  reassured 
at  the  end. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "All  before  my 
time,  I  expect.  They  might  come  in,  you  know." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  clergyman.  "I  told  them 
not,  and — " 

"  Well,  let's  come  to  business,"  said  Frank.  "  It's 
about  a  girl.  You  saw  that  man  to-day?  You 
saw  his  sort,  did  you?  Well,  he's  a  bad  hat. 
And  he's  got  a  girl  going  about  with  him  who 
isn't  his  wife.  I  want  to  get  her  home  again  to 
her  people." 

"Yes?" 

"  Can  you  do  anything?  (Don't  say  you  can  if 
you  can't,  please.  .  .  .)  She  comes  from  Chis- 


334  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

wick.  I'll  give  you  her  address  before  I  go.  But 
I  don't  want  it  muddled,  you  know." 

The  clergyman  swallowed  in  his  throat.  He  had 
only  been  ordained  eighteen  months,  and  the  ex- 
treme abruptness  and  reality  of  the  situation  took 
him  a  little  aback. 

"  I  can  try,"  he  said.  "  And  I  can  put  the  ladies 
on  to  her.  But,  of  course,  I  can't  undertake  — " 

"Of  course.  But  do  you  think  there's  a  reason- 
able chance?  If  not,  I'd  better  have  another  try 
myself." 

"  Have  you  tried,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  half  a  dozen  times.  A  fortnight  ago 
was  the  last,  and  I  really  thought  — ' ' 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  Are  these  people  your 
friends,  or  what  ?  " 

"  I've  been  traveling  with  them  off  and  on  since 
June.  They  belong  to  you,  so  far  as  they  belong  to 
anyone.  I'm  a  Catholic,  you  know  — " 

"Really?     But—" 

"  Convert.  Last  June.  Don't  let's  argue,  my 
dear  chap.  There  isn't  time." 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  drew  a  breath. 

There  is  no  other  phrase  so  adequate  for  describ- 
ing his  condition  of  mind  as  the  old  one  concerning 
head  and  heels.  There  had  rushed  on  him,  not  out 
of  the  blue,  but,  what  was  even  more  surprising,  out 
of  the  very  dingy  sky  of  Hackney  Wick  (and  Turner 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  335 

Road,  at  that!),  this  astonishing  young  man,  keen- 
eyed,  brown- faced,  muscular,  who  had  turned  out 
to  be  a  school- fellow  of  his  own,  and  a  school-fellow 
whose  reputation,  during  the  three  hours  since  they 
had  parted,  he  had  swiftly  remembered  point  by 
point  —  Guiseley  of  Drew's  —  the  boy  who  had 
thrown  off  his  coat  in  early  school  and  displayed  him- 
self shirtless;  who  had  stolen  four  out  of  the  six 
birches  on  a  certain  winter  morning,  and  had  con- 
versed affably  with  the  Head  in  school  yard  with  the 
ends  of  the  birches  sticking  out  below  the  skirts  of 
his  overcoat ;  who  had  been  discovered  on  the  fourth 
of  June,  with  an  air  of  reverential  innocence,  dress- 
ing the  bronze  statue  of  King  Henry  VI.  in  a  surplice 
in  honor  of  the  day.  And  now  here  he  was,  and  from 
his  dress  and  the  situation  of  his  lodging-house  to  be 
reckoned  among  the  worst  of  the  loafing  class,  and 
yet  talking,  with  an  air  of  complete  confidence  and 
equality  of  a  disreputable  young  woman  —  his  com- 
panion —  who  was  to  be  rescued  from  a  yet  more 
disreputable  companion  and  restored  to  her  parents 
in  Chiswick. 

And  this  was  not  all  —  for,  as  Mr.  Parham-Car- 
ter  informed  me  himself  —  there  was  being  im- 
pressed upon  him  during  this  interview  a  very  curi- 
ous sensation,  which  he  was  hardly  able,  even  after 
consideration,  to  put  into  words  —  a  sensation  con- 
cerning the  personality  and  presence  of  this  young 


336  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

man  which  he  could  only  describe  as  making  him  feel 
"  beastly  queer." 

It  seems  to  have  been  about  this  point  that  he  first 
perceived  it  clearly  —  distinguished  it,  that  is  to  say, 
from  the  whole  atmosphere  of  startling  and  suggest- 
ing mystery  that  surrounded  him. 

He  looked  at  Frank  in  silence  a  moment  or  two. 

There  Guiseley  sat  —  leaning  back  in  the  red 
leather  chair,  his  cocoa  still  untouched.  He  was  in 
a  villainous  suit  that  once,  probably,  had  been  dark 
blue.  The  jacket  was  buttoned  up  to  his  chin,  and 
a  grimy  muffler  surrounded  his  neck.  His  trousers 
were  a  great  deal  too  short,  and  disclosed  above  a 
yellow  sock,  on  the  leg  nearest  to  him,  about  four 
inches  of  dark-looking  skin.  His  boots  were  heavy, 
patched,  and  entirely  uncleaned,  and  the  upper  toe- 
cap  of  one  of  them  gaped  from  the  leather  over  the 
instep.  His  hands  were  deep  in  his  pockets,  as  if 
even  in  this  warm  room,  he  felt  the  cold. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  there.  It  was  the 
kind  of  figure  presented  by  unsatisfactory  candidates 
for  the  men's  club.  And  yet  there  was  about  him 
this  air,  arresting  and  rather  disconcerting.  . 

It  was  a  sort  of  electric  serenity,  if  I  understand 
Mr.  Parham-Carter  aright  —  a  zone  of  perfectly 
still  energy,  like  warmth  or  biting  cold,  as  of  a 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  337 

charged  force:  it  was  like  a  real  person  standing 
motionless  in  the  middle  of  a  picture.  (Mr.  Par- 
ham-Carter  did  not,  of  course,  use  such  beautiful 
similes  as  these ;  he  employed  the  kind  of  language 
customary  to  men  who  have  received  a  public  school 
and  university  education,  half  slang  and  half  child- 
ishness ;  but  he  waved  his  hands  at  me  and  distorted 
his  features,  and  conveyed,  on  the  whole,  the  kind 
of  impression  I  have  just  attempted  to  set  down.) 

Frank,  then,  seemed  as  much  out  of  place  in  this 
perfectly  correct  and  suitable  little  room  as  an  In- 
dian prince  in  Buckingham  Palace;  or,  if  you  pre- 
fer it,  an  English  nobleman  (with  spats)  in  Delhi. 
He  was  just  entirely  different  from  it  all;  he  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it ;  he  was  wholly  out 
of  place,  not  exactly  as  regarded  his  manner  (for  he 
was  quite  at  his  ease),  but  with  regard  to  his  sig- 
nificance. He  was  as  a  foreign  symbol  in  a  familiar 
language. 

Its  effect  upon  Mr.  Parham-Carter  was  quite  clear 
and  strong.  He  instanced  to  me  the  fact  that  he 
said  nothing  to  Frank  about  his  soul:  he  honestly 
confessed  that  he  scarcely  even  wished  to  press  him 
to  come  to  Evensong  on  Sunday.  Of  course,  he  did 
not  like  Frank's  being  a  Roman  Catholic;  and  his 
whole  intellectual  being  informed  him  that  it  was 
because  Frank  had  never  really  known  the  Church 
of  England  that  he  had  left  it.  (Mr.  Parham-Car- 


338  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ter  had  himself  learned  the  real  nature  of  the  Church 
of  England  at  the  Pusey  House  at  Oxford.)  But 
there  are  certain  atmospheres  in  which  the  intel- 
lectual convictions  are  not  very  important,  and  this 
was  one  of  them.  So  here  the  two  young  men  sat 
and  stared  at  one  another,  or,  rather,  Mr.  Parham- 
Carter  stared  at  Frank,  and  Frank  looked  at  nothing 
in  particular. 

"  You  haven't  drunk  your  cocoa,"  said  the  clergy- 
man suddenly. 

Frank  turned  abruptly,  took  up  the  cup  and  drank 
the  contents  straight  off  at  one  draught. 

"  And  a  cigarette?  " 

Frank  took  up  a  cigarette  and  put  in  his  mouth. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  taking  it  out  again, 
"  when'll  you  send  your  ladies  round  ?  The  morn- 
ing's best,  when  the  rest  of  us  are  out  of  the  way." 

"  All  right." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  there's  anything  else  ?  " 

"  My  dear  chap,"  said  the  other,  "  I  wish  you'd 
tell  me  what  it's  all  about  —  why  you're  in  this  sort 
of  life,  you  know.  I  don't  want  to  pry,  but  — " 

Frank  smiled  suddenly  and  vividly. 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  to  say.  That's  not  the  point. 
It's  by  my  own  choice  practically.  I  assure  you  I 
haven't  disgraced  anybody." 

"  But  your  people  — " 

"  Oh !  they're  all  right.     There's  nothing  the  mat- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  339 

ter  with  them.  .  .  .  Look  here !  I  really  must 
be  going." 

He  stood  up,  and  something  seemed  to  snap  in  the 
atmosphere  as  he  did  so. 

"  Besides,  I've  got  to  be  at  work  early  — " 

"  I  say,  what  did  you  do  then?  " 

"  Do  then?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  When  you  stood  up  —  Did  you  say  anything  ? 

Frank  looked  at  him  bewildered. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  did  not  quite  know  what  he 
had  meant  himself.  It  was  a  sensation  come  and 
gone,  in  an  instant,  as  Frank  had  moved 
a  sensation  which  I  suppose  some  people  would  call 
"  psychical  " —  a  sensation  as  if  a  shock  had  vibrated 
for  one  moment  through  every  part  of  his  own  being, 
and  of  the  pleasant  little  warm  room  where  he  was 
sitting.  He  looked  at  the  other,  dazed  for  a  second 
or  two,  but  there  was  nothing.  Those  two  steady 
black  eyes  looked  at  him  in  a  humorous  kind  of  con- 
cern. .  .  . 

He  stood  up  himself. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  must  be 
getting  sleepy." 

He  put  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  "  Oh !  I'll  come  and  see 
you  as  far  as  the  gate." 


340  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Frank  looked  at  him  a  second. 

"  I  say,"  he  said;  "  I  suppose  you've  never  thought 
of  becoming  a  Catholic?  " 

"  My  dear  chap  — " 

"No!  Well,  all  right.  ...  oh!  don't 
bother  to  come  to  the  gate." 

"  I'm  coming.     It  may  be  locked." 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  stood  looking  after  Frank's 
figure  even  after  it  had  passed  along  the  dark  shop 
fronts  and  was  turning  the  corner  towards  Turner 
Road.  Then  it  went  under  the  lamplight  and  dis- 
appeared. 

It  was  a  drizzling,  cold  night,  and  he  himself  was 
bareheaded ;  he  felt  the  moisture  run  down  his  fore- 
head, but  it  didn't  seem  to  be  happening  to  him. 
On  his  right  rose  up  the  big  parish-hall  where  the  en- 
tertainments were  held,  and  beyond  it,  the  east  end 
of  the  great  church,  dark  now  and  tenantless;  and 
he  felt  the  wet  woodwork  of  the  gate  grasped  in  his 
fingers. 

He  did  not  quite  know  what  was  happening  to 
him  but  everything  seemed  different.  A  hundred 
thoughts  had  passed  through  his  mind  during  the 
last  half  hour.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought 
to  have  asked  Guiseley  to  come  to  the  clergy-house 
and  lodge  there  for  a  bit  while  things  were  talked 
over;  that  he  ought,  tactfully,  to  have  offered  to  lend 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  341 

him  money,  to  provide  him  with  a  new  suit,  to  make 
suggestions  as  to  proper  employment  instead  of  at 
the  jam  factory  —  all  those  proper,  philanthropic 
and  prudent  suggestions  that  a  really  sensible  clergy- 
man would  have  made.  And  yet,  somehow,  not 
only  had  he  not  made  them,  but  it  was  obvious  and 
evident  when  he  regarded  them  that  they  could  not 
possibly  be  made.  Guiseley  (of  Drew's)  did  not 
require  them,  he  was  on  another  line  altogether. 
.  .  .  And  what  was  that  line  ? 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  leaned  on  the  gate  a  full  five 
minutes  considering  all  this.  But  he  arrived  at  no 
conclusion. 


CHAPTER  II 


'"TT^HE  Rector  of  Merefield  was  returning  from 
-•"  a  short  pastoral  visitation  towards  the  close 
of  an  afternoon  at  the  beginning  of  November. 
His  method  and  aims  were  very  characteristic  of 
himself,  since  he  was  one  of  that  numerous  class 
of  persons  who,  interiorly  possessing  their  full 
share  of  proper  pride,  wear  exteriorly  an  appearance 
of  extreme  and  almost  timid  humility.  The  aims  of 
his  visiting  were,  though  he  was  quite  unaware 
of  the  fact,  directed  towards  encouraging  people  to 
hold  fast  to  their  proper  position  in  life  (for  this, 
after  all,  is  only  another  name  for  one's  duty  to- 
wards one's  neighbor),  and  his  method  was  to  en- 
gage in  general  conversation  on  local  topics.  There 
emerged,  in  this  way,  information  as  to  the  patient's 
habits  and  actions;  it  would  thus  transpire,  for  ex- 
ample, whether  the  patient  had  been  to  church  or  not, 
whether  there  were  any  quarrels,  and,  if  so,  who 
were  the  combatants  and  for  what  cause. 

He  had  been  fairly  satisfied  to-day;  he  had  met 
with  good  excuses  for  the  absence  of  two  children 
342 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  343 

from  day-school,  and  of  a  young  man  from  choir- 
practice;  he  had  read  a  little  Scripture  to  an  old 
man,  and  had  been  edified  by  his  comments  upon  it. 
It  was  not  particularly  supernatural,  but,  after  all, 
the  natural  has  its  place,  too,  in  life,  and  he  had  un- 
doubtedly fulfilled  to-day  some  of  the  duties  for 
whose  sake  he  occupied  the  position  of  Rector  of 
Merefield,  in  a  completely  inoffensive  manner.  The 
things  he  hated  most  in  the  world  were  disturbances 
of  any  kind,  abruptness  and  the  unexpected,  and  he 
had  a  strong  reputation  in  the  village  for  being  a 
man  of  peace. 

It  sounds  a  hard  thing  to  say  of  so  conscientious 
a  man,  but  a  properly  preserved  social  order  was 
perhaps  to  his  mind  the  nearest  approach  to  the  es- 
tablishment of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  on  earth. 
Each  person  held  his  proper  position,  including  him- 
self, and  he  no  more  expected  others  to  be  untrue 
to  their  station  than  he  wished  to  be  untrue  to  his 
own.  There  were,  of  course,  two  main  divisions  — 
those  of  gentle  birth  and  those  not  of  gentle  birth, 
and  these  were  as  distinct  as  the  sexes.  But  there 
were  endless  gradations  in  each  respectively,  and 
he  himself  regarded  those  with  as  much  respect  as 
those  of  the  angelic  hierarchy :  the  "  Dominations  " 
might,  or  might  not  be  as  "  good  "  as  the  "  Powers," 
but  they  were  certainly  different,  by  Divine  decree. 
It  would  be  a  species  of  human  blasphemy,  there- 


344  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

fore,  for  himself  not  to  stand  up  in  Lord  Talgarth's 
presence,  or  for  a  laborer  not  to  touch  his  hat  to 
Miss  Jenny.  This  is  sometimes  called  snobbishness, 
but  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  is  merely  a  marked 
form  of  Toryism. 

It  was  a  pleasant  autumnal  kind  of  afternoon, 
and  he  took  off  his  hat  as  he  turned  up  past  the 
park  gates  to  feel  the  cool  air,  as  he  was  a  little 
heated  with  his  walk.  He  felt  exceedingly  content 
with  all  things :  there  were  no  troubles  in  the  parish, 
he  enjoyed  excellent  health,  and  he  had  just  done 
his  duty.  He  disliked  pastoral  visiting  very  deeply 
indeed;  he  was  essentially  a  timid  kind  of  man,  but 
he  made  his  rules  and  kept  them,  for  he  was  essen- 
tially a  conscientious  man.  He  was  so  conscien- 
tious that  he  was  probably  quite  unaware  that  he 
disliked  this  particular  duty. 

Just  as  he  came  opposite  the  gates  —  great  iron- 
work affairs  with  ramping  eagles  and  a  Gothic 
lodge  smothered  in  ivy  —  the  man  ran  out  and  be- 
gan to  wheel  them  back,  after  a  hasty  salute  to  his 
pastor ;  and  the  Rector,  turning,  saw  a  sight  that  in- 
creased his  complacency.  It  was  just  Jenny  riding 
with  Lord  Talgarth,  as  he  knew  she  was  doing  that 
afternoon. 

They  made  a  handsome,  courtly  kind  of  pair  —  a 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  345 

sort  of  "  father  and  daughter  "  after  some  romantic 
artist  or  other.  Lord  Talgarth's  heavy  figure 
looked  well-proportioned  on  horseback,  and  he  sat 
his  big  black  mare  very  tolerably  indeed.  And 
Jenny  looked  delicious  on  the  white  mare,  herself 
in  dark  green.  A  groom  followed  twenty  yards 
behind. 

Lord  Talgarth's  big  face  nodded  genially  to  the 
Rector  and  he  made  a  kind  of  salute ;  he  seemed  in 
excellent  dispositions ;  Jenny  was  a  little  flushed  with 
exercise,  and  smiled  at  her  father  with  a  quiet, 
friendly  dignity. 

"Just  taking  her  ladyship  home,"  said  the  old 
man.  .  .'  .  "  Yes ;  charming  day,  isn't  it  ?  " 

The  Rector  followed  them,  pleased  at  heart. 
Usually  Jenny  rode  home  alone  with  the  groom  to 
take  back  her  mare  to  the  stables.  It  was  the  first 
time,  so  far  as  he  could  remember,  that  Lord  Tal- 
garth  had  taken  the  trouble  to  escort  her  all  the  way 
home  himself.  It  really  was  very  pleasant  indeed, 
and  very  creditable  to  Jenny's  tact,  that  relations 
were  so  cordial.  .  .  .  And-  they  were  dining 
there  to-morrow,  too.  The  social  order  of  Mere- 
field  seemed  to  be  in  an  exceedingly  sound  condi- 
tion. 


346  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

(n) 

Lord  Talgarth,  too,  seemed  to  the  lodge-keeper,  as 
ten  minutes  later  the  gates  rolled  back  again  to  wel- 
come their  lord,  in  an  unusually  genial  temper  (and, 
indeed,  there  was  always  about  this  old  man  as  great 
a  capacity  for  geniality  on  one  side  as  for  temper  on 
the  other;  it  is  usually  so  with  explosive  characters). 
He  even  checked  his  horse  and  asked  after  "  the 
missus  "  in  so  many  words ;  although  two  days  be- 
fore a  violent  message  had  come  down  to  complain 
of  laxity  in  the  gate-opening,  owing  to  the  missus' 
indisposition  on  an  occasion  when  the  official  him- 
self had  been  digging  cabbages  behind  the  Gothic 
lodge  and  the  hoot  of  the  motor  had  not  been 
heard. 

The  missus,  it  seemed,  was  up  and  about  again 
(indeed  her  husband  caught  a  glimpse  out  of  the 
tail  of  his  eye  of  a  pale  face  that  glanced  and  with- 
drew again  apprehensively  above  the  muslin  curtain 
beyond  his  lordship). 

"That's  all  right,"  remarked  Lord  Talgarth 
heartily,  and  rode  on. 

The  lodge-keeper  exchanged  a  solemn  wink  with 
the  groom  half  a  minute  later,  and  stood  to  watch 
the  heavy  figure  ahead  plunging  about  rather  in  the 
saddle  as  the  big  black  mare  set  her  feet  upon  the 
turf  and  viewed  her  stable  afar  off. 


XOM-:  OTHKR  GODS  347 

It  was  a  fact  that  Lord  Talgarth  was  pleased  with 
himself  and  all  the  world  to-day,  for  he  kept  it  up 
even  with  the  footman  who  slipped,  and  all  but  lost 
his  balance,  as  he  brought  tea  into  the  library. 

"Hold  up!"  remarked  the  nobleman. 

The  footman  smiled  gently  and  weakly,  after  the 
manner  of  a  dependent,  and  related  the  incident 
with  caustic  gusto  to  his  fellows  in  the  pantry. 

After  tea  Lord  Talgarth  lay  back  in  his  chair 
and  appeared  to  meditate,  as  was  observed  by  the 
man  who  fetched  out  the  tea-things  and  poked  the 
fire ;  and  he  was  still  meditating,  though  now  there 
was  the  aromatic  smell  of  tobacco  upon  the  air, 
when  his  own  man  came  to  tell  him  that  it  was  time 
to  dress. 

It  was  indeed  a  perfect  room  for  arm-chair  medi- 
tations; there  were  tall  book-shelves,  mahogany 
writing-tables,  each  with  its  shaded  electric  lamp; 
the  carpet  was  as  deep  as  a  summer  lawn ;  and  in  the 
wide  hearth  logs  consumed  themselves  in  an  almost 
deferential  silence.  There  was  every  conceivable 
thing  that  could  be  wanted  laid  in  its  proper  place. 
It  was  the  kind  of  room  in  which  it  would  seem  that 
no  scheme  could  miscarry  and  every  wish  must  pre- 
vail ;  the  objective  physical  world  grouped  itself  so 
obediently  to  the  human  will  that  it  was  almost  im- 
possible to  imagine  a  state  of  things  in  which  it  did 
not  so.  The  great  house  was  admirably  ordered; 


348  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

there  was  no  sound  that  there  should  not  be  —  no 
hitches,  no  gaps  or  cracks  anywhere;  it  moved  like 
a  well-oiled  machine ;  the  gong,  sounded  in  the  great 
hall,  issued  invitations  rather  than  commands.  All 
was  leisurely,  perfectly  adapted  and  irreproach- 
able. 

It  is  always  more  difficult  for  people  who  live  in 
such  houses  as  these  to  behave  well  under  adverse 
fortune  than  for  those  who  live  in  houses  where  the 
Irish  stew  can  be  smelled  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  where  the  doors  do  not  shut  prop- 
erly, and  the  kitchen  range  goes  wrong.  Possibly 
something  of  this  fact  helped  to  explain  the  owner's 
extreme  violence  of  temper  on  the  occasion  of  his 
son's  revolt.  It  was  intolerable  for  a  man  all  of 
whose  other  surroundings  moved  like  clockwork, 
obedient  to  his  whims,  to  be  disobeyed  flatly  by  one 
whose  obedience  should  be  his  first  duty  —  to  find 
disorder  and  rebellion  in  the  very  mainspring  of  the 
whole  machine. 

Possibly,  too,  the  little  scheme  that  was  maturing 
in  Lord  Talgarth's  mind  between  tea  and  dinner 
that  evening  helped  to  restore  his  geniality ;  for,  as 
soon  as  the  thought  was  conceived,  it  became 
obvious  that  it  could  be  carried  through  with  suc- 
cess. 


NONK  OTHER  GODS  349 

He  observed :  "  Aha !  it's  time,  is  it  ?  "  to  his  man 
in  a  hearty  kind  of  way,  and  hoisted  himself  out  of 
his  chair  with  unusual  briskness. 

(in) 

He  spent  a  long  evening  again  in  the  library  alone 
Archie  was  away;  and  after  dining  alone  with  alt 
the  usual  state,  the  old  man  commanded  that  coffee 
should  be  brought  after  him.  The  butler  found 
him,  five  minutes  later,  kneeling  before  a  tall  case 
of  drawers,  trying  various  keys  off  his  bunch,  and 
when  the  man  came  to  bring  in  whisky  and  clear 
away  the  coffee  things  he  was  in  his  deep  chair,  a 
table  on  either  side  of  him  piled  with  papers,  and 
a  drawer  upon  his  knees. 

"  You  can  put  this  lot  back,"  he  remarked  to  the 
young  footman,  indicating  a  little  pile  of  four  draw- 
ers on  the  hearth-rug.  He  watched  the  man  medi- 
tatively as  he  attempted  to  fit  them  into  their  places. 

"  Not  that  way,  you  fool !  Haven't  you  got 
eyes?  .  .  .  The  top  one  at  the  top !" 

But  he  said  it  without  bitterness  —  almost  con- 
templatively. And,  as  the  butler  glanced  round  a 
moment  or  t\vo  later  to  see  that  all  was  in  order, 
he  saw  his  master  once  more  beginning  to  read 
papers. 

"  Good-night."  said  Lord  Talgarth. 

"  Good-night,  my  lord,"  said  the  butler. 


350  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  discussion  that  night 
in  the  men's  wing  as  to  the  meaning  of  all  this,  and 
it  was  conducted  with  complete  frankness.  Mr. 
Merton,  the  butler,  had  retired  to  his  own  house  in 
the  stable-yard,  and  Mr.  Clarkson,  the  valet,  was 
in  his  lordship's  dressing-room;  so  the  men  talked 
freely.  It  was  agreed  that  only  two  explanations 
were  possible  for  the  unusual  sweetness  of  temper: 
either  Mr.  Frank  was  to  be  reinstated,  or  his  father 
was  beginning  to  break  up.  Frank  was  extremely 
popular  with  servants  always;  and  it  was  generally 
hoped  that  the  former  explanation  was  the  true  one. 
Possibly,  however,  both  were  required. 

Mr.  Clarkson  too  was  greatly  intrigue  that  night. 
He  yawned  about  the  dressing-room  till  an  unusu- 
ally late  hour,  for  Lord  Talgarth  generally  retired 
to  rest  between  ten  and  half -past.  To-night,  how- 
ever, it  was  twenty  minutes  to  twelve  before  the 
man  stood  up  suddenly  from  the  sofa  at  the  sound 
of  a  vibration  in  the  passage  outside.  The  old  man 
came  in  briskly,  bearing  a  bundle  of  papers  in  one 
hand  and  a  bed-candle  in  the  other,  with  the  same 
twinkle  of  good  temper  in  his  eyes  that  he  had  car- 
ried all  the  evening. 

"  Give  me  the  dispatch-box  under  the  sofa,"  he 
said;  "  the  one  in  the  leather  case." 

This  was  done  and  the  papers  \vere  laid  in  it, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  351 

carefully,  on  the  top.  Mr.  Clarkson  noticed  that 
they  had  a  legal  appearance,  were  long-shaped  and 
inscribed  in  stiff  lettering.  Then  the  dispatch-box 
was  reclosed  and  set  on  the  writing-table  which  my 
lord  used  sometimes  when  he  was  unwell. 

"  Remind  me  to  send  for  Mr.  Manners  to-mor- 
row," he  said.  (This  was  the  solicitor.) 

Getting  ready  for  bed  that  evening  was  almost 
of  a  sensational  nature,  and  Mr.  Clarkson  had  to 
keep  all  his  wits  about  him  to  respond  with  suffi- 
cient agility  to  the  sallies  of  his  master.  Usually  it 
was  all  a  very  somber  ceremony,  with  a  good  deal  of 
groaning  and  snarling  in  asides.  But  to-night  it 
was  as  cheerful  as  possible. 

The  mysteries  of  it  all  are  too  great  for  me  to 
attempt  to  pierce  them;  but  it  is  really  incredible 
what  a  number  of  processes  are  necessary  before  an 
oldish  man,  who  is  something  of  a  buck  and  some- 
thing of  an  invalid,  and  altogether  self-centered,  is 
able  to  lay  him  down  to  rest.  There  are  strange 
doses  to  be  prepared  and  drunk,  strange  manipula- 
tions to  be  performed  and  very  particular  little 
ceremonies  to  be  observed,  each  in  its  proper  place. 
Each  to-night  was  accompanied  by  some  genial  com- 
ment :  the  senna-pod  distillation,  that  had  been  soak- 
ing since  seven  p.  m.  in  hot  water,  was  drunk  almost 
with  the  air  of  a  toast;  the  massaging  of  the  ankles 


352  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  toes  (an  exercise  invented  entirely  by  Lord 
Talgarth  himself)  might  have  been  almost  in  prepa- 
ration for  a  dance. 

He  stood  up  at  last,  an  erect,  stoutish  figure,  in 
quilted  dressing-gown  and  pyjamas,  before  the  fire, 
as  his  man  put  on  his  slippers  for  him,  for  the  little 
procession  into  the  next  room. 

"  I  think  I'm  better  to-night,  Clarkson,"  he  said. 

"  Your  lordship  seems  very  well  indeed,  my  lord," 
murmured  that  diplomat  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"  How  old  do  you  think  I  am,  Clarkson?  " 

Clarkson  knew  perfectly  well,  but  it  was  better 
to  make  a  deprecatory  confused  noise. 

"  Ah !  well,  we  needn't  reckon  by  years  ...  I 
feel  young  enough,"  observed  the  stately  figure  be- 
fore the  fire. 

Then  the  procession  was  formed :  the  double  doors 
were  set  back,  the  electric  light  switched  on;  Lord 
Talgarth  passed  through  towards  the  great  four- 
posted  bed  that  stood  out  into  the  bedroom,  and  was 
in  bed,  with  scarcely  a  groan,  almost  before  the 
swift  Mr.  Clarkson  could  be  at  his  side  to  help  him 
in.  He  lay  there,  his  ruddy  face  wonderfully  hand- 
some against  the  contrast  of  his  gray  hair  and  the 
white  pillow,  while  Mr.  Clarkson  concluded  the 
other  and  final  ceremonies.  A  small  table  had  to 
be  wheeled  to  a  certain  position  beside  the  bed, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  353 

and  the  handle  of  the  electric  cord  laid  upon  it  in 
a  particular  place,  between  the  book  and  the  tray 
on  which  stood  some  other  very  special  draught 
t«>  he  drunk  in  case  of  thirst. 

"  Call  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier  than  us- 
ual," observed  the  face  on  the  pillow.  "  I'll  take 
a  little  stroll  before  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  to  remind  me  to  do  after 
breakfast?" 

"  Send  for  Mr.  Manners,  my  lord." 

"  That's  right.     Good-night,  Clarkson." 

"  Good-night,  my  lord." 

There  was  the  usual  discreet  glance  round  the 
room  to  see  that  all  was  in  order;  then  the  door 
into  the  dressing-room  closed  imperceptibly  behind 
Mr.  Clarkson's  bent  back. 


CHAPTER  III 


TT71NTER  at  Merefield  Rectory  is  almost  as 
delightful  as  summer,  although  in  an  en- 
tirely different  way.  The  fact  is  that  the  Rectory 
has  managed  the  perfect  English  compromise.  In 
summer,  with  the  windows  and  doors  wide  open, 
with  the  heavy  radiant  creepers,  with  the  lawns 
lying  about  the  house,  with  the  warm  air  flowing 
over  the  smooth,  polished  floors  and  lifting  the  thin 
mats,  with  the  endless  whistle  of  bird  song  —  then 
the  place  seems  like  a  summer-house.  And  in  win- 
ter, with  the  heavy  carpets  down,  and  the  thick 
curtains,  the  very  polished  floors,  so  cool  in  summer, 
seem  expressly  designed  to  glimmer  warmly  with 
candle-  and  fire-light;  and  the  books  seem  to  lean 
forward  protectively  and  reassert  themselves,  and 
the  low  beamed  ceilings  to  shelter  and  safeguard 
the  interior  comfort.  The  center  of  gravity  is 
changed  almost  imperceptibly.  In  summer  the 
place  is  a  garden  with  a  house  in  the  middle;  in 
winter  a  house  surrounded  by  shrubberies. 
354 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  355 

The  study  in  one  way  and  the  morning-room  in 
another  are  the  respective  pivots  of  the  house.  The 
study  is  a  little  paneled  room  on  the  ground-floor, 
looking  out  upon  the  last  of  the  line  of  old  yews 
and  the  beginning  of  the  lawn;  the  morning-room 
( once  known  as  the  school-room )  is  the  only  other 
paneled  room  in  the  house,  on  the  first  floor,  look- 
ing out  upon  the  front.  And  round  these  two 
rooms  the  two  sections  of  the  house-life  tranquilly 
revolve.  Here  in  one  the  Rector  controls  the  af- 
fairs of  the  parish,  writes  his  sermons,  receives  his 
men  friends  (not  very  many),  and  reads  his  books. 
There  in  the  other  Jenny  orders  the  domestic  life  of 
the  house,  interviews  the  cook,  and  occupies  herself 
with  her  own  affairs.  They  are  two  rival,  but  per- 
fectly friendly,  camps. 

Lately  (I  am  speaking  now  of  the  beginning  of 
November)  there  had  not  been  quite  so  much  com- 
munication between  the  two  camps  as  usual,  not 
so  many  informal  negotiations.  Jenny  did  not  look 
in  quite  so  often  upon  her  father  —  for  ten  min- 
utes after  breakfast,  for  instance,  or  before  lunch 
—  and  when  he  looked  in  on  her  he  seemed  to  find 
her  generally  with  rather  a  preoccupied  air,  often 
sitting  before  the  wide-arched  fireplace,  with  her 
hands  behind  her  head,  looking  at  the  red  logs. 

He  was  an  easy  man,  as  has  been  seen,  and  did 


356  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

not  greatly  trouble  his  head  about  it:  he  knew 
enough  of  the  world  to  recognize  that  an  extremely 
beautiful  girl  like  Jenny,  living  on  the  terms  she 
did  with  the  great  house  —  and  a  house  with  men 
coming  and  going  continually,  to  say  nothing  of 
lawn-tennis  parties  and  balls  elsewhere  —  cannot 
altogether  escape  complications.  He  was  reason- 
able enough,  too,  to  understand  that  a  father  is  not 
always  the  best  confidant,  and  he  had  supreme  con- 
fidence in  Jenny's  common  sense. 

I  suppose  he  had  his  dreams;  he  would  scarcely 
have  been  human  if  he  had  not,  and  he  was  quite 
human.  The  throwing  over  of  Frank  had  brought 
him  mixed  emotions,  but  he  had  not  been  consulted 
either  at  the  beginning  or  the  end  of  the  engage- 
ment, and  he  acquiesced.  Of  Dick's  affair  he  knew 
nothing  at  all. 

That,  then,  was  the  situation  when  the  bomb  ex- 
ploded. It  exploded  in  this  way. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  study  one  morning  —  to  be 
accurate,  it  was  the  first  Saturday  in  November, 
two  days  after  the  events  of  the  last  chapter  — 
preparing  to  begin  the  composition  of  his  sermon 
for  the  next  day.  They  had  dined  up  at  the  great 
house  the  night  before  quite  quietly  with  Lord  Tal- 
garth  and  Archie,  who  had  just  come  back. 

He  had  selected  his  text  with  great  care  from 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  357 

the  Gospel  for  the  day,  when  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  Jenny  came  in.  This  was  very  unusual 
on  Saturday  morning;  it  was  an  understood  thing 
that  he  must  be  at  his  sermon;  but  his  faint  sense 
of  annoyance  was  completely  dispelled  by  his  daugh- 
ter's face.  She  was  quite  pale  —  not  exactly  as  if 
she  had  received  a  shock,  but  as  if  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  something;  there  was  no  sign  of 
tremor  in  her  face ;  on  the  contrary,  she  looked  ex- 
tremely determined,  but  her  eyes  searched  his  as 
she  stopped. 

"  I'm  dreadfully  sorry,  father,  but  may  I  talk  to 
you  for  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

She  did  not  wait  for  his  answer,  but  came  straight 
in  and  sat  down  in  his  easy-chair.  He  laid  his  pen 
down  and  turned  a  little  at  his  writing-table  to  face 
her. 

"  Certainly,  dear.  What  is  it  ?  Nothing 
wrong?  " 

(He  noticed  she  had  a  note  in  her  hand.) 

"  No,  nothing  wrong.  .  .  ."  She  hesitated. 
"  But  it's  rather  important." 

"Well?" 

She  glanced  down  at  the  note  she  carried.  Then 
she  looked  up  at  him  again. 

"  Father,  I  suppose  you've  thought  of  my  marry- 
ing some  day  —  in  spite  of  Frank?" 


358  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"Eh?" 

"  Would  you  mind  if  I  married  a  man  older  than 
myself  —  I  mean  a  good  deal  older?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Two  or  three  names 
passed  before  his  mind,  but  he  couldn't  remember  — 

"  Father,  I'm  in  trouble.  I  really  am.  I  didn't 
expect  — " 

Her  voice  faltered.  He  saw  that  she  really 
found  it  difficult  to  speak.  A  little  wave  of  ten- 
derness rolled  over  his  heart.  It  was  unlike  her 
to  be  so  much  moved.  He  got  up  and  came  round 
to  her. 

"What  is  it,  dear?     Tell  me." 

She  remained  perfectly  motionless  for  an  instant. 
Then  she  held  out  the  note  to  him,  and  simultane- 
ously stood  up. .  As  he  took  it,  she  went  swiftly 
past  him  and  out  of  the  door.  He  heard  the  swish 
of  her  dress  pass  up  the  stairs,  and  then  the  closing 
of  a  door.  But  he  hardly  heeded  it.  He  was  read- 
ing the  note  she  had  given  him.  It  was  a  short, 
perfectly  formal  offer  of  marriage  to  her  from 
Lord  Talgarth. 


(n) 

"  Father,  dear,"  said  Jenny,  "  I  want  you  to  let 
me  have  my  say  straight  out,  will  you  ?  " 
He  bowed  his  head. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  359 

They  were  sitting,  on  the  evening  of  the  same 
day,  over  the  tea-things  in  his  study.  He  had  not 
seen  her  alone  for  one  moment  since  the  morning. 
She  had  refused  to  open  her  door  to  him  when  he 
went  up  after  reading  the  note:  she  had  pleaded 
a  headache  at  lunch,  and  she  had  been  invisible  all 
the  afternoon.  Then,  as  he  came  in  about  tea- 
time,  she  had  descended  upon  him,  rather  pale,  but 
perfectly  herself,  perfectly  natural,  and  even  rather 
high-Spirited.  She  had  informed  him  that  tea 
would  be  laid  in  his  study,  as  she  wanted  a  long 
talk.  She  had  poured  out  tea,  talking  all  the  time, 
refusing,  it  seemed,  to  meet  his  eyes.  When  she 
had  finished,  she  had  poured  out  his  third  cup,  and 
then  pushed  her  own  low  chair  back  so  far  that  he 
could  not  see  her  face. 

Then  she  had  opened  the  engagement. 

To  say  that  the  poor  man  had  been  taken  aback 
would  be  a  very  poor  way  of  describing  his  con- 
dition. The  thing  simply  had  never  entered  his 
head.  He  had  dreamed,  in  wild  moments,  of 
Archie;  he  had  certainly  contemplated  Dick;  but 
Lord  Talgarth  himself,  gouty  and  aged  sixty-five! 
.  .  .  And  yet  he  had  not  been  indignant.  In- 
dignation not  only  did  not  do  with  Jenny,  but  it 
was  impossible.  To  be  quite  frank,  the  man  was 
afraid  of  his  daughter;  he  was  aware  that  she 


362  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

.  .  .  "  And  that,  of  course,  is  perhaps  the 
strongest  argument  of  all.  If  I  could  be  of  any 
real  use  to  him — "  She  stopped  again. 

The  Rector  shifted  a  little  in  his  chair. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  conceal  from  him- 
self any  longer  the  fact  that  up  to  now  he  had  really 
been  expecting  Jenny  to  accept  the  offer.  But  he  was 
a  little  puzzled  now  at  the  admirable  array  of  reasons 
she  had  advanced  against  that.  She  had  put  into 
words  just  the  sensible  view  of  which  he  himself 
had  only  had  a  confused  apprehension;  she  had 
analyzed  into  all  its  component  parts  that  general 
sense  which  one  side  of  him  had  pushed  before  him 
all  day  —  that  the  thing  was  really  abominable. 
And  this  side  of  him  at  this  time  was  uppermost. 
He  drew  a  whistling  breath. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  began,  and  the  relief  was 
very  apparent  in  his  voice.  But  Jenny  interrupted. 

"  One  minute,  please,  father !  In  fairness  to  — 
to  everyone  I  must  put  the  other  side.  ...  I 
suppose  the  main  question  is  this,  after  all.  Am  I 
fond  of  him?  —  fond  enough,  that  is,  to  marry 
him  —  because,  of  course,  I'm  fond  of  him;  he's 
been  so  extraordinarily  kind  always.  ...  I 
suppose  that's  really  the  only  thing  to  be  consid- 
ered. If  I  were  fond  enough  of  him,  I  suppose 
all  the  arguments  against  count  for  nothing.  Isn't 


NONK  OTHER  GODS  363 

that  so?  .  .  .  Yes;  I  want  you  to  say  what 
you  think." 

He  waited.  Still  he  could  make  out  nothing  of 
her  face,  though  he  glanced  across  the  tea-things 
once  or  twice. 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.     I  — ' 

"  Father,  dear,  I  just  want  that  from  you.  Do 
you  think  that  any  consideration  at  all  ought  to  stand 
in  the  way,  if  I  were  —  I  don't  say  for  one  single 
moment  that  I  am  —  but  if  I  were  —  well,  really 
fond  of  him?  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  speak  so  very 
plainly,  but  it's  no  good  being  silly." 

He  swallowed  in  his  throat  once  or  twice. 

"If  you  really  were  fond  of  him  —  I  think 
.  .  .  I  think  that  no  consideration  of  the  sort 
you  have  mentioned  ought  to  ...  to  stand  in 
your  way." 

"  Thank  you,  father,"  said  Jenny  softly. 

"  When  did  you  first  think  of  it?  " 

Jenny  paused. 

"  I  think  I  knew  he  was  going  to  ask  me  two 
days  ago  —  the  day  you  met  us  out  riding,  you 
know." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

They  had  already  discussed,  when  Frank's  af- 
fair had  been  before  them,  all  secondary  details. 


362  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

.  .  .  "  And  that,  of  course,  is  perhaps  the 
strongest  argument  of  all.  If  I  could  be  of  any 
real  use  to  him — "  She  stopped  again. 

The  Rector  shifted  a  little  in  his  chair. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  conceal  from  him- 
self any  longer  the  fact  that  up  to  now  he  had  really 
been  expecting  Jenny  to  accept  the  offer.  But  he  was 
a  little  puzzled  now  at  the  admirable  array  of  reasons 
she  had  advanced  against  that.  She  had  put  into 
words  just  the  sensible  view  of  which  he  himself 
had  only  had  a  confused  apprehension;  she  had 
analyzed  into  all  its  component  parts  that  general 
sense  which  one  side  of  him  had  pushed  before  him 
all  day  —  that  the  thing  was  really  abominable. 
And  this  side  of  him  at  this  time  was  uppermost. 
He  drew  a  whistling  breath. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  began,  and  the  relief  was 
very  apparent  in  his  voice.  But  Jenny  interrupted. 

"  One  minute,  please,  father !  In  fairness  to  — 
to  everyone  I  must  put  the  other  side.  ...  I 
suppose  the  main  question  is  this,  after  all.  Am  I 
fond  of  him?  —  fond  enough,  that  is,  to  marry 
him  —  because,  of  course,  I'm  fond  of  him;  he's 
been  so  extraordinarily  kind  always.  ...  I 
suppose  that's  really  the  only  thing  to  be  consid- 
ered. If  I  were  fond  enough  of  him,  I  suppose 
all  the  arguments  against  count  for  nothing.  Isn't 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  363 

that  so?  .  .  .  Yes;  I  want  you  to  say  \vhat 
you  think." 

He  waited.  Still  he  could  make  out  nothing  of 
her  face,  though  he  glanced  across  the  tea-things 
once  or  twice. 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.     I  — ' 

"  Father,  dear,  I  just  want  that  from  you.  Do 
you  think  that  any  consideration  at  all  ought  to  stand 
in  the  way,  if  I  were  —  I  don't  say  for  one  single 
moment  that  I  am  —  but  if  I  were  —  well,  really 
fond  of  him?  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  speak  so  very 
plainly,  but  it's  no  good  being  silly." 

He  swallowed  in  his  throat  once  or  twice. 

"If  you  really  were  fond  of  him  —  I  think 
.  .  .  I  think  that  no  consideration  of  the  sort 
you  have  mentioned  ought  to  ...  to  stand  in 
your  way." 

"  Thank  you,  father,"  said  Jenny  softly. 

"  When  did  you  first  think  of  it?  " 

Jenny  paused. 

"  I  think  I  knew  lie  was  going  to  ask  me  two 
days  ago  —  the  day  you  met  us  out  riding,  you 
know." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

They  had  already  discussed,  when  Frank's  af- 
fair had  been  before  them,  all  secondary  details. 


364  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

The  Rector's  sister  was  to  have  taken  Jenny's  place. 
There  was  nothing  of  that  sort  to  talk  about  now. 
They  were  both  just  face  to  face  with  primary 
things,  and  they  both  knew  it. 

The  Rector's  mind  worked  like  a  mill  —  a  mill 
whose  machinery  is  running  aimlessly.  The  wheels 
went  round  and  round,  but  they  effected  nothing. 
He  was  completely  ignorant  as  to  what  Jenny  in- 
tended. He  perceived  —  as  in  a  series  of  little 
vignettes  —  a  number  of  hypothetical  events,  on 
this  side  and  that,  but  they  drew  to  no  conclusion 
in  his  mind.  He  was  just  waiting  on  his  daughter's 
will. 

Jenny  broke  the  silence  with  a  slow  remark  in 
another  kind  of  voice. 

"  Father,  dear,  there's  something  else  I  must  tell 
you.  I  didn't  see  any  need  to  bother  you  with  it 
before.  It's  this.  Mr.  Dick  Guiseley  proposed  to 
me  when  he  was  here  for  the  shooting." 

She  paused,  but  her  father  said  nothing. 

"  I  told  him  he  must  wait  —  that  I  didn't  know 
for  certain,  but  that  I  was  almost  certain.  If  he 
had  pressed  for  an  answer  I  should  have  said  '  No.' 
Oddly  enough,  I  was  thinking  only  yesterday  that 
it  wasn't  fair  to  keep  him  waiting  any  longer.  Be- 
cause .  .  .  because  it's  '  No '  any- 
how, now." 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  365 

The  Rector  still  could  not  speak.  It  was  just 
one  bewilderment.  But  apparently  Jenny  did  not 
want  any  comments. 

"  That  being  so,"  she  went  on  serenely,  "  my 
conscience  is  clear,  anyhow.  And  I  mustn't  let 
what  I  think  Mr.  Dick  might  say  or  think  affect 
me  —  any  more  than  the  other  things.  Must  I  ?  " 

".  .  .  Jenny,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Tell 
me!" 

"  Father,  dear,"  came  the  high  astonished  voice, 
"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  at  all.  I  must  think. 
Did  you  think  I'd  made  up  my  mind?  Why! 
How  could  I?  Of  course  I  should  say  '  No'  if  I 
had  to  answer  now." 

"  I  — "  began  the  Rector  and  stopped.  He  per- 
ceived that  the  situation  could  easily  be  compli- 
cated. 

"  I  must  just  think  about  it  quietly,"  went  on 
the  girl.  "  And  I  must  write  a  note  to  say  so. 
.  .  .  Father  .  .  ." 

He  glanced  in  her  direction. 

"  Father,  about  being  fond  of  a  man.  .  .  . 
Xeecl  it  be  —  well,  as  I  was  fond  of  Frank?  I 
don't  think  Lord  Talgarth  could  have  expected 
that,  could  he?  But  if  you  —  well  —  get  on  with 
a  man  very  well,  understand  him  —  can  stand  up 
to  him  without  annoying  him  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
and  care  for  him,  really,  I  mean,  in  such  a  way 


366  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

that  you  like  being  with  him  very  much,  and  look 
up  to  him  very  much  in  all  kinds  of  ways —  (I'm 
very  sorry  to  have  to  talk  like  this,  but  whom  am 
I  to  talk  to,  father  dear?)  Well,  if  I  found  I  did 
care  for  Lord  Talgarth  like  that  —  like  a  sort  of 
daughter,  or  niece,  and  more  than  that  too,  would 
that  — " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Rector,  abruptly  stand- 
ing up.  "  I  don't  know ;  you  mustn't  ask  me.  You 
must  settle  all  that  yourself." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  startled,  it  seemed,  by  the 
change  in  his  manner. 

"  Father,  dear — "  she  began,  with  just  the  faint- 
est touch  of  pathetic  reproach  in  her  voice.  But 
he  did  not  appear  moved  by  it. 

"  You  must  settle,"  he  said.  "  You  have  all  the 
data.  I  haven't.  I — " 

He  stepped  towards  the  door. 

"  Tell  me  as  soon  as  you  have  decided,"  he  said, 
and  went  out. 


(in) 

The  little  brown  dog  called  Lama,  who  in  an 
earlier  chapter  once  trotted  across  a  lawn,  and  who 
had  lately  been  promoted  to  sleeping  upon  Jenny's 
bed,  awoke  suddenly  that  night  and  growled  a  low 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  367 

breathy  remonstrance.  He  had  been  abruptly 
kicked  from  beneath  the  bedclothes. 

"  Get  off,  you  heavy  little  beast,"  said  a  voice  in 
the  darkness. 

Lama  settled  himself  again  with  a  grunt,  half  of 
comfort,  half  of  complaint. 

"  Get  off! "  came  the  voice  again,  and  again  his 
ribs  were  heaved  at  by  a  foot. 

He  considered  it  a  moment  or  two,  and  even 
shifted  nearer  the  wall,  still  blind  with  sleep;  but 
the  foot  pursued  him,  and  he  awoke  finally  to  the 
conviction  that  it  would  be  more  comfortable  by 
the  fire;  there  was  a  white  sheepskin  there,  he  re- 
flected. As  he  finally  reached  the  ground,  a  scratch- 
ing was  heard  in  the  corner,  and  he  was  instantly 
alert,  and  the  next  moment  had  fitted  his  nose,  like 
a  kind  of  india-rubber  pad,  deep  into  a  small  mouse- 
hole  in  the  wainscoting,  and  was  breathing  long 
noisy  sighs  down  into  the  delicious  and  gamey- 
smelling  darkness. 

"  Oh !  be  quiet !  "  came  a  voice  from  the  bed. 

Lama  continued  his  investigations  unmoved,  and 
having  decided,  after  one  long  final  blow,  that  there 
was  to  be  no  sport,  returned  to  the  sheepskin  with 
that  brisk  independent  air  that  was  so  characteristic 
of  him.  He  was  completely  awake  now,  and 
stood  eyeing  the  bed  a  moment,  with  the  possibility 


368  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

in  his  mind  that  his  mistress  was  asleep  again,  and 
that  by  a  very  gentle  leap  —  But  a  match  was 
struck  abruptly,  and  he  lay  down,  looking,  with  that 
appearance  of  extreme  wide-awakedness  in  his  black 
eyes  that  animals  always  wrear  at  night,  at  his  rest- 
less mistress. 

He  could  not  quite  understand  what  was  the 
matter. 

First  she  lit  a  caridle,  took  a  book  from  the  small 
table  by  the  bed  and  began  to  read  resolutely.  This 
continued  till  Lama's  eyes  began  to  blink  at  the 
candle  flame,  and  then  he  was  suddenly  aware  that 
the  light  was  out  and  the  book  closed,  and  all  fallen 
back  again  into  the  clear  gray  tones  which  men  call' 
darkness. 

He  put  his  head  down  on  his  paws,  but  his  eye- 
brows rose  now  and  again  as  he  glanced  at  the 
bed. 

Then  the  candle  was  lighted  again  after  a  cer- 
tain space  of  time,  but  this  time  there  was  no  book 
opened.  Instead,  his  mistress  took  her  arms  out  of 
bed,  and  clasped  them  behind  her  head,  staring  up 
at  the  ceiling.  .  .  v 

This  was  tiresome,  as  the  light  was  in  his  eyes, 
and  his  body  was  just  inert  enough  with  sleep  to 
make  movement  something  of  an  effort. 
Little  by  little,  however,  his  eyebrows  came  down, 
remained  down,  and  his  eyes  closed.     .     .     . 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  369 

He  awoke  again  at  a  sound.  The  candle  was 
still  burning,  but  his  mistress  had  rolled  over  on 
to  her  side  and  seemed  to  be  talking  gently  to  her- 
self. Then  she  was  over  again  on  this  side,  and  a 
minute  later  was  out  of  bed,  and  walking  to  and 
fro  noiselessly  on  the  soft  carpet. 

He  watched  her  with  interest,  his  eyes  only  fol- 
lowing her.  He  had  never  yet  fully  understood 
this  mysterious  change  of  aspect  that  took  place 
every  night  —  the  white  thin  dress,  the  altered  ap- 
pearance of  the  head,  and  —  most  mysterious  of 
all  —  the  two  white  things  that  ought  to  be  feet, 
but  were  no  longer  hard  and  black.  He  had  licked 
one  of  them  once  tentatively,  and  had  found  that 
the  effect  was  that  it  had  curled  up  suddenly ;  there 
had  been  a  sound  as  of  pain  overhead,  and  a  swift 
slap  had  descended  upon  him. 

He  was  observing  these  things  now  —  to  and  fro, 
to  and  fro  —  and  his  eyes  moved  with  them. 

After  a  certain  space  of  time  the  movement 
stopped.  She  was  standing  still  near  a  carved  desk 
—  important  because  a  mouse  had  once  been  de- 
scribed sitting  beneath  it;  and  she  stood  so  long 
that  his  eyes  began  to  blink  once  more.  Then 
there  was  a  rustle  of  paper  being  torn,  and  he  was 
alert  again  in  a  moment.  Perhaps  paper  would  be 
thrown  for  him  presently.  .  .  . 


370  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

She  came  across  to  the  hearth-rug,  and  he  was 
up,  watching  her  hands,  while  his  own  short  tail 
flickered  three  or  four  times  in  invitation.  But  it 
was  no  good :  the  ball  was  crumpled  up  and  thrown 
on  to  the  red  logs.  There  was  a  "  whup  "  from  the 
fire  and  a  flame  shot  up.  He  looked  at  this  care- 
fully with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  again  lay  down 
to  watch  it.  His  mistress  was  standing  quite  still, 
watching  it  with  him. 

Then,  as  the  flame  died  down,  she  turned 
abruptly,  went  straight  back  to  the  bed,  got  into  it, 
drew  the  clothes  over  her  and  blew  the  candle  out. 

After  a  few  moments  steady  staring  at  the  fire, 
he  perceived  that  a  part  of  the  ball  of  paper  had 
rolled  out  on  to  the  stone  hearth  unburned.  He 
looked  at  it  for  some  while,  wondering  whether 
it  was  worth  getting  up  for.  Certainly  the  warmth 
was  delicious  and  the  sheepskin  exquisitely  soft. 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  bed.  A  complete 
and  absolute  silence  had  succeeded  to  all  the  rest- 
lessness. 

Finally  he  concluded  that  it  was  impossible  to  lie 
there  any  longer  and  watch  such  a  crisp  little  roll 
of  paper  still  untorn.  He  got  up,  stepped  delicately 
on  to  the  wide  hearth,  and  pulled  the  paper  towards 
him  with  a  little  scratching  sound.  There  was  a 
sigh  from  the  bed,  and  he  paused.  Then  he  lifted 


XUXK  OT11KR  GODS  371 

it,  stepped  back  to  his  warm  place,  lay  down,  and 
placing  his  paws  firmly  upon  the  paper,  began  to 
tear  scraps  out  of  it  with  his  white  teeth. 

"  Oh,  be  quiet!  "  came  the  weary  voice  from  the 
bed. 

He  paused,  considered;  then  he  tore  two  more 
pieces.  But  it  did  not  taste  as  it  should;  it  was  a 
little  sticky,  and  too  stiff.  He  stood  up  once  more, 
turned  round  four  times  and  lay  down  with  a  small 
grant 

In  the  morning  the  maid  who  swept  up  the  ashes 
swept  up  these  fragments  too.  She  noticed  a  wet 
scrap  of  a  picture  postcard,  with  the  word  "  Selby  " 
printed  in  the  corner.  Then  she  threw  that  piece, 
too,  into  the  dustpan. 


CHAPTER  IV 

(i) 

1%/TRS.  PARTINGTON  and  Gertie  had  many 
•*••*•  of  those  mysterious  conversations  that  such 
women  have,  full  of  "  he's  "  and  "  she's  "  and  nods 
and  becks  and  allusions  and  broken  sentences, 
wholly  unintelligible  to  the  outsider,  yet  packed 
with  interest  to  the  talkers.  The  Major,  Mr.  Part- 
ington  (still  absent),  and  Frank  were  discussed 
continually  and  exhaustively ;  and,  so  far  as  the  sub- 
jects themselves  ranged,  there  was  hardly  an  un- 
important detail  that  did  not  come  under  notice, 
and  hardly  an  important  fact  that  did.  Gertie  of- 
ficially passed,  of  course,  as  Mrs.  Trustcott  always. 
A  couple  of  mornings  after  Frank  had  begun  his 
work  at  the  jam  factory,  Mrs.  Partington,  who  had 
stepped  round  the  corner  to  talk  with  a  friend  for 
an  hour  or  so,  returned  to  find  Gertie  raging.  She 
raged  in  her  own  way ;  she  was  as  white  as  a  sheet ; 
she  uttered  ironical  and  unintelligible  sentences, 
in  which  Frank's  name  appeared  repeatedly,  and 
it  emerged  presently  that  one  of  the  Mission-ladies 
had  been  round  minding  other  folks'  business,  and 
372 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  373 

that  Gertie  would  thank  that  lady  to  keep  her  airs 
and  her  advice  to  herself. 

Now  Mrs.  Partington  knew  that  Gertie  was  not 
the  Major's  wife,  and  Gertie  knew  that  she  knew 
it;  and  Mrs.  Partington  knew  that  Gertie  knew 
that  she  knew  it.  Yet,  officially,  all  was  perfectly 
correct;  Gertie  wore  a  wedding-ring,  and  there 
never  was  the  hint  that  she  had  not  a  right  to  it. 
It  was  impossible,  therefore,  for  Mrs.  Partington 
to  observe  out  loud  that  she  understood  perfectly 
what  the  Mission-lady  had  been  talking  about. 
She  said  very  little;  she  pressed  her  thin  lips  to- 
gether and  let  Gertie  alone.  The  conversations 
that  morning  were  of  the  nature  of  disconnected 
monologues  from  Gertie  with  long  silences  between. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  silent  storm.  The  Major 
was  away  in  the  West  End  somewhere  on  mysteri- 
ous affairs;  the  children  were  at  school,  and  the 
two  women  went  about,  each  knowing  what  was  in 
the  mind  of  the  other,  yet  each  resolved  to  keep-  up 
appearances. 

At  half-past  five  o'clock  Frank  abruptly  came  in 
for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  Mrs.  Partington  gave  it  him 
in  silence.  (Gertie  could  be  heard  moving  about 
restlessly  overhead.)  She  made  one  or  two  or- 
dinary remarks,  watching  Frank  when  he  was  not 
looking.  But  Frank  said  very  little.  He  sat  up 
to  the  table;  he  drank  two  cups  of  tea  out  of  the 


374  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

chipped  enamel  mug,  and  then  he  set  to  work  on 
his  kippered  herring.  At  this  point  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton  left  the  room,  as  if  casually,  and  a  minute  later 
Gertie  came  downstairs. 

She  came  in  with  an  indescribable  air  of  virtue, 
rather  white  in  the  face,  with  her  small  chin  care- 
fully thrust  out  and  her  eyelids  drooping.  It  was 
a  pose  she  was  accustomed  to  admire  in  high- 
minded  and  aristocratic  barmaids.  Frank  nodded 
at  her  and  uttered  a  syllable  or  two  of  greeting. 

She  said  nothing ;  she  went  round  to  the  window, 
carrying  a  white  cotton  blouse  she  had  been  wash- 
ing upstairs,  and  hung  it  on  the  clothes-line  that 
ran  inside  the  window.  Then,  still  affecting  to  be 
busy  with  it,  she  fired  her  first  shot,  with  her  back 
to  him. 

"  I'll    thank    you    to    let    my    business    alone. 

»> 

(Frank  put  another  piece  of  herring  into  his 
mouth. ) 

".  .  .  And  not  to  send  round  any  more  of 
your  nasty  cats,"  added  Gertie  after  a  pause. 

There  was  silence  from  Frank. 

"Well?"  snapped  Gertie. 

"  How  dare  you  talk  like  that !  "  said  Frank,  per- 
fectly quietly. 

He  spoke  so  low  that  Gertie  mistook  his  attitude, 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  375 

and,  leaning  her  hands  on  the  table,  she  poured  out 
the  torrent  that  had  been  gathering  within  her  ever 
since  the  Mission-lady  had  left  her  at  eleven  o'clock 
that  morning.  The  lady  had  not  been  tactful;  she 
was  quite  new  to  the  work,  and  quite  fresh  from  a 
women's  college,  and  she  had  said  a  great  deal 
more  than  she  ought,  with  an  earnest  smile  upon 
her  face  that  she  had  thought  conciliatory  and  per- 
suasive. Gertie  dealt  with  her  faithfully  now;  she 
sketched  her  character  as  she  believed  it  to  be ;  she 
traced  her  motives  and  her  attitude  to  life  with  an 
extraordinary  wealth  of  detail;  she  threw  in  de- 
scriptive passages  of  her  personal  appearance,  and 
she  stated,  with  extreme  frankness,  her  opinion  of 
such  persons  as  she  had  thought  friendly,  but  now 
discovered  to  be  hypocritical  parsons  in  disguise. 
Unhappily  I  have  not  the  skill  to  transcribe  her 
speech  in  full,  and  there  are  other  reasons,  too,  why 
her  actual  words  are  best  unreported :  they  were  ex- 
tremely picturesque. 

Frank  ate  on  quietly  till  he  had  finished  his  her- 
ring; then  he  drank  his  last  cup  of  tea,  and  turned 
a  little  in  his  chair  towards  the  fire.  He  glanced  at 
the  clock,  perceiving  that  he  had  still  ten  minutes, 
just  as  Gertie  ended  and  stood  back  shaking  and 
pale-eyed. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

It  seemed  it  was  not  all,  and  Gertie  began  again, 


3;6  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

this  time  on  a  slightly  higher  note,  and  with  a 
little  color  in  her  face.  Frank  waited,  quite  simply 
and  without  ostentation.  She  finished. 

After  a  moment's  pause  Frank  answered. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  want,"  he  said.  "  I 
talked  to  you  myself,  and  you  wouldn't  listen.  So 
I  thought  perhaps  another  woman  would  do  it  bet- 
ter — " 

"  I  did  listen  — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Frank  instantly.  "  I 
was  wrong.  You  did  listen,  and  very  patiently.  I 
meant  that  you  wouldn't  do  what  I  said.  And  so  I 
thought  — " 

Gertie  burst  out  again,  against  cats  and  sneaking 
hypocrites,  but  there  was  not  quite  the  same  venom 
in  her  manner. 

"  Very  good,"  said  Frank.  "  Then  I  won't  make 
the  mistake  again.  I  am  very  sorry  —  not  in  the 
least  for  having  interfered,  you  understand,  but 
for  not  having  tried  again  myself."  (He  took  up 
his  cap.)  "You'll  soon  give  in,  Gertie,  you  know. 
Don't  you  think  so  yourself?" 

Gertie  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"  You  understand,  naturally,  why  I  can't  talk  to 
you  while  the  Major's  here.  But  the  next  time  I 
have  a  chance  — " 

The  unlatched  door  was  pushed  open  and  the 
Major  came  in. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  377 


(n) 


There  was  an  uncomfortable  little  pause  for  a 
moment.  It  is  extremely  doubtful,  even  now,  ex- 
actly how  much  the  Major  heard ;  but  he  must  have 
heard  something,  and  to  a  man  of  his  mind  the  sit- 
uation that  he  found  must  have  looked  extremely 
suspicious.  Gertie,  flushed  now,  with  emotion  very 
plainly  visible  in  her  bright  eyes,  was  standing  look- 
ing at  Frank,  who,  it  appeared,  was  a  little  discon- 
certed. It  would  have  been  almost  miraculous  if 
the  Major  had  not  been  convinced  that  he  had  inter- 
rupted a  little  private  love-making. 

It  is  rather  hard  to  analyze  the  Major's  attitude 
towards  Gertie;  but  what  is  certain  is  that  the 
idea  of  anyone  else  making  love  to  her  was  simply 
intolerable.  Certainly  he  did  not  treat  her  with  any 
great  chivalry ;  he  made  her  carry  the  heavier  bun- 
dles on  the  tramp;  he  behaved  to  her  with  consid- 
erable disrespect;  he  discussed  her  freely  with  his 
friends  on  convivial  occasions.  But  she  was  his 
property  —  his  and  no  one  else's.  He  had  had  his 
suspicions  before;  he  had  come  in  quietly  just  now 
on  purpose,  and  he  had  found  himself  confronted 
by  this  very  peculiar  little  scene. 

He  looked  at  them  both  in  silence.     Then  his 

lips  sneered  like  a  dog's. 
25 


378  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  with  extreme  politeness. 
"  I  appear  to  be  interrupting  a  private  conversa- 
tion." 

No  one  said  anything.  Frank  leaned  his  elbow 
on  the  mantelpiece. 

"  It  was  private,  then?  "  continued  the  Major  with 
all  the  poisonous  courtesy  at  his  command. 

"  Yes ;  it  was  private,"  said  Frank  shortly. 

The  Major  put  his  bowler  hat  carefully  upon  the 
table. 

"  Gertie,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  be  good 
enough  to  leave  us  for  an  instant  ?  I  regret  having 
to  trouble  you." 

Gertie  breathed  rather  rapidly  for  a  moment  or 
two.  She  was  not  altogether  displeased.  She  un- 
derstood perfectly,  and  it  seemed  to  her  rather  pleas- 
ant that  two  men  should  get  into  this  kind  of  situa- 
tion over  her.  She  was  aware  that  trouble  would 
come  to  herself  later,  probably  in  the  form  of  per- 
sonal chastisement,  but  to  the  particular  kind  of 
feminine  temperament  that  she  possessed  even  a 
beating  was  not  wholly  painful,  and  the  cheap  kind 
of  drama  in  which  she  found  herself  was  wholly  at- 
tractive. After  an  instant's  pause,  she  cast  towards 
Frank  what  she  believed  to  be  a  "  proud  "  glance  and 
marched  out. 

"If  you've  got  much  to  say,"  said  Frank  rapidly, 
as  the  door  closed,  "  you'd  better  keep  it  for  this 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  379 

evening.  I've  got  to  go  in  .  .  .  in  two  min- 
utes." 

"  Two  minutes  will  be  ample,"  said  the  Major 
softly. 

Frank  waited. 

"  When  I  find  a  friend,"  went  on  the  other,  "  en- 
gaged in  an  apparently  exciting  kind  of  conversa- 
tion, which  he  informs  me  is  private,  with  one  who 
is  in  the  position  of  my  wife  —  particularly  when  I 
catch  a  sentence  or  two  obviously  not  intended  for 
my  ears  —  I  do  not  ask  what  was  the  subject  of  the 
conversation,  but  I  — " 

"  My  dear  man,"  said  Frank,  "  do  put  it  more 
simply." 

The  Major  was  caught,  so  to  speak,  full  in  the 
wind.  His  face  twitched  with  anger. 

Then  he  flung  an  oath  at  Frank. 

"  If  I  catch  you  at  it  again,"  he  said,  "  there'll  be 
trouble.  God  damn  you !  " 

"  That  is  as  it  may  be,"  said  Frank. 

The  Major  had  had  just  one  drink  too  much,  and 
he  was  in  the  kind  of  expansive  mood  that  changes 
very  rapidly. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  you  were  not  trying  to  take  her 
from  me?"  he  cried,  almost  with  pathos  in  his 
voice. 

This  was,  of  course,  exactly  what  Frank  had  been 
trying  to  do. 


380  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  You  can't  deny  it !  .  .  .  Then  I  tell  you 
this,  Mr.  Frankie  " — the  Major  sprang  up — "one 
word  more  from  you  to  her  on  that  subject  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and  you'll  know  it.  D'you  under- 
stand me  ?  " 

He  thrust  his  face  forward  almost  into  Frank's. 

It  was  an  unpleasant  face  at  most  times,  but  it 
was  really  dangerous  now.  His  lips  lay  back,  and 
the  peculiar  hot  smell  of  spirit  breathed  into  Frank's 
nostrils.  Frank  turned  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  understand  you  perfectly,"  he  said.  "  There's 
no  need  to  say  any  more.  And  now,  if  you'll  for- 
give me,  I  must  get  back  to  my  work." 

He  took  up  his  cap  and  went  out. 

The  Major,  as  has  been  said,  had  had  one  glass 
too  much,  and  he  had,  accordingly,  put  into  words 
what,  even  in  his  most  suspicious  moments,  he  had 
intended  to  keep  to  himself.  It  might  be  said,  too, 
that  he  had  put  into  words  what  he  did  not  really 
think.  But  the  Major  was,  like  everyone  else,  for 
good  or  evil,  a  complex  character,  and  found  it  per- 
fectly possible  both  to  believe  and  disbelieve  the 
same  idea  simultaneously.  It  depended  in  what 
stratum  the  center  of  gravity  happened  to  be  tempo- 
rarily suspended.  One  large  part  of  the  Major 
knew  perfectly  well,  therefore,  that  any  jealousy  of 
Frank  was  simply  ridiculous  —  the  thing  was  sim- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  381 

ply  alien;  and  another  part,  not  so  large,  but  ten 
times  more  concentrated,  judged  Frank  by  the 
standards  by  which  the  Major  (qua  blackguard) 
conducted  his  life.  For  people  who  lived  usually 
in  that  stratum,  making  love  to  Gertie,  under  such 
circumstances,  would  have  been  an  eminently  natu- 
ral thing  to  do,  and,  just  now,  the  Major  chose  to 
place  Frank  amongst  them. 

The  Major  himself  was  completely  unaware  of 
these  psychological  distinctions,  and,  as  he  sat,  sunk 
in  his  chair,  brooding,  before  stepping  out  to  attend 
to  Gertie,  he  was  entirely  convinced  that  his  sus- 
picions were  justified.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that 
numberless  little  details  out  of  the  past  fitted,  with 
the  smoothness  of  an  adjusted  puzzle,  into  the 
framework  of  his  thought. 

There  was,  first,  the  very  remarkable  fact  that 
Frank,  in  spite  of  opportunities  to  better  himself, 
had  remained  in  their  company.  At  Barham,  at 
Doctor  Whitty's,  at  the  monastery,  obvious  chances 
had  offered  themselves  and  he  had  not  taken  them. 
Then  there  were  the  small  acts  of  courtesy,  the 
bearing  of  Gertie's  bundles  two  or  three  times. 
Finally,  there  was  a  certain  change  in  Gertie's  man- 
ner —  a  certain  silent  peevishness  towards  himself, 
a  curious  air  that  fell  on  her  now  and  then  as  she 
spoke  to  Frank  or  looked  at  him. 

And  so  forth.     It  was  an  extraordinarily  con- 


382  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

vincing  case,  clinched  now  by  the  little  scene  that 
he  had  just  interrupted.  And  the  very  irregularity 
of  his  own  relations  with  Gertie  helped  to  poison 
the  situation  with  an  astonishingly  strong  venom. 

Of  course,  there  were  other  considerations,  or, 
rather,  there  was  one  —  that  Frank,  obviously,  was 
not  the  kind  of  man  to  be  attracted  by  the  kind  of 
woman  that  Gertie  was  —  a  consideration  made  up, 
however,  of  infinitely  slighter  indications.  But  this 
counted  for  nothing.  It  seemed  unsubstantial  and 
shadowy.  There  were  solid,  definable  arguments 
on  the  one  side ;  there  was  a  vague  general  impres- 
sion on  the  other. 

So  the  Major  sat  and  stared  at  the  fire,  with  the 
candle-light  falling  on  his  sunken  cheeks  and  the 
bristle  on  his  chin  —  a  poor  fallen  kind  of  figure, 
yet  still  holding  the  shadow  of  a  shadow  of  an  ideal 
that  might  yet  make  him  dangerous. 

Presently  he  got  up  with  a  sudden  movement  and 
went  in  search  of  Gertie. 


(m) 

There  are  no  free  libraries  in  Hackney  Wick ;  the 
munificences  of  Mr.  Carnegie  have  not  yet  pene- 
trated to  that  district  (and,  indeed,  the  thought  of  a 
library  of  any  kind  in  Hackney  Wick  is  a  little  in- 
congruous). But  there  is  one  in  Homerton,  and 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  383 

during  the  dinner-hour  on  the  following  day  Frank 
went  up  the  steps  of  it,  pushed  open  the  swing 
doors,  and  found  his  way  to  some  kind  of  a  writing- 
room,  where  he  obtained  a  sheet  of  paper,  an  en- 
velope and  a  penny  stamp,  and  sat  down  to  write  a 
letter. 

The  picture  that  I  have  in  my  mind  of  Frank  at 
this  present  time  may  possibly  be  a  little  incorrect 
in  one  or  two  details,  but  I  am  quite  clear  about  its 
main  outlines,  and  it  is  extremely  vivid  on  the  whole. 
I  see  him  going  in,  quietly  and  unostentatiously  — 
quite  at  his  ease,  yet  a  very  unusual  figure  in  such 
surroundings.  I  hear  an  old  gentleman  sniff  and 
move  his  chair  a  little  as  this  person  in  an  exceed- 
ingly shabby  blue  suit  with  the  collar  turned  up, 
with  a  muffler  round  his  neck  and  large,  bulging 
boots  on  his  feet,  comes  and  sits  beside  him.  I  per- 
ceive an  earnest  young  lady,  probably  a  typist  in 
search  of  extra  culture,  look  at  him  long  and  va- 
cantly from  over  her  copy  of  Emerson,  and  can  al- 
most see  her  mind  gradually  collecting  conclusions 
about  him.  The  attendant,  too,  as  he  asks  for  his 
paper,  eyes  him  shrewdly  and  suspiciously,  and 
waits  till  the  three  halfpence  are  actually  handed 
across  under  the  brass  wire  partition  before  giving 
him  the  penny  stamp.  These  circumstances  may 
be  incorrect,  but  I  am  absolutely  clear  as  to  Frank's 
own  attitude  of  mind.  Honestly,  he  no  longer 


384  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

minds  in  the  very  least  how  people  behave  to  him ; 
he  has  got  through  all  that  kind  of  thing  long  ago : 
he  is  not  at  all  to  be  commiserated;  it  appears  to 
him  only  of  importance  to  get  the  paper  and  to  be 
able  to  write  and  post  his  letter  without  interrup- 
tion. For  Frank  has  got  on  to  that  plane  —  (I 
know  no  other  word  to  use,  though  I  dislike  this 
one)  — when  these  other  things  simply  do  not  mat- 
ter. We  all  touch  that  plane  sometimes,  generally 
under  circumstances  of  a  strong  mental  excitement, 
whether  of  pleasure  or  pain,  or  even  annoyance.  A 
man  with  violent  toothache,  or  who  has  just  become 
engaged  to  be  married,  really  does  not  care  what 
people  think  of  him.  But  Frank,  for  the  present 
at  least,  has  got  here  altogether,  though  for  quite 
different  reasons.  The  letter  he  wrote  on  this  oc- 
casion is,  at  present,  in  my  possession.  It  runs  as 
follows.  It  is  very  short  and  business-like : 

"  DEAR  JACK, 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  where  I  am  —  or,  rather, 
where  I  can  be  got  at  in  case  of  need.  I  am  down 
in  East  London  for  the  present,  and  one  of  the 
curates  here  knows  where  I'm  living.  (He  was  at 
Eton  with  me.)  His  address  is:  The  Rev.  E. 
Parham-Carter,  The  Eton  Mission,  Hackney  Wick, 
London,  N.  E. 

"  The  reason  I'm  writing  is  this :    You  remember 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  385 

Major  Trustcott  and  Gertie,  don't  you?  Well,  I 
haven't  succeeded  in  getting  Gertie  back  to  her  peo- 
ple yet,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  the  Major  knows 
that  there's  something  up,  and,  of  course,  puts  the 
worst  possible  construction  upon  it.  Parham-Car- 
ter  knows  all  about  it,  too  —  I've  just  left  a  note  on 
him,  with  instructions.  Now  I  don't  quite  know 
what '11  happen,  but  in  case  anything  does  happen 
which  prevents  my  going  on  at  Gertie,  I  want  you 
to  come  and  do  what  you  can.  Parham-Carter  will 
write  to  you  if  necessary. 

"  That's  one  thing ;  and  the  next  is  this :  I'd 
rather  like  to  have  some  news  about  my  people,  and 
for  them  to  know  (if  they  want  to  know  —  I  leave 
that  to  you)  that  I'm  getting  on  all  right.  I  haven't 
heard  a  word  about  them  since  August.  I  know 
nothing  particular  can  have  happened,  because  I 
always  look  at  the  papers  —  but  I  should  like  to 
know  what's  going  on  generally. 

"  I  think  that's  about  all.  I  am  getting  on  ex- 
cellently myself,  and  hope  you  are.  I  am  afraid 
there's  no  chance  of  my  coming  to  you  for  Christ- 
mas. I  suppose  you'll  be  home  again  by  now. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  F.  G." 

"  P.S. —  Of  course  you'll  keep  all  this  private  — 
as  well  as  where  I'm  living." 


386  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

.  Now  this  letter  seems  to  me  rather  interesting 
from  a  psychological  point  of  view.  It  is  extremely 
business-like,  but  perfectly  unpractical.  Frank 
states  what  he  wants,  but  he  wants  an  absurd  im- 
possibility. I  like  Jack  Kirkby  very  much,  but  I 
cannot  picture  him  as  likely  to  be  successful  in  help- 
ing to  restore  a  strayed  girl  to  her  people.  I  sup- 
pose Frank's  only  excuse  is  that  he  did  not  know 
whom  else  to  write  to. 

It  is  rather  interesting,  too,  to  notice  his  desire 
to  know  what  is  going  on  at  his  home;  it  seems  as 
if  he  must  have  had  some  faint  inkling  that  some- 
thing important  was  about  to  happen,  and  this  is 
interesting  in  view  of  what  now  followed  immedi- 
ately. 

He  directed  his  letter,  stamped  it,  and  posted  it  in 
the  library  post-box  in  the  vestibule.  Then,  cap  in 
hand,  he  pushed  open  the  swing-doors  and  ran 
straight  into  Mr.  Parham-Carter. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  that  clergyman  —  and  went  a  lit- 
tle white. 

"Hullo!"  said  Frank;  and  then:  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  I'm  going  back  to  the  jam  factory." 

"  May  I  walk  with  you  ?  " 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  387 

"  Certainly,  if  you  don't  mind  my  eating  as  I  go 
along." 

The  clergyman  turned  with  him  and  went  beside 
him  in  silence,  as  Frank,  drawing  out  of  his  side- 
pocket  a  large  hunch  of  bread  and  cheese,  wrapped 
up  in  the  advertisement  sheet  of  the  Daily  Mail,  Ije- 
I;H:I  to  fill  his  mouth. 

"  I  \\ant  to  know  if  you've  had  any  news  from 
home." 

Frank  turned  to  him  slightly. 

"  Xo,"  he  said  sharply,  after  a  pause. 

Mr.  Par  ham-Carter  licked  his  lips. 

"  Well  —  no,  it  isn't  bad  news;  but  I  wondered 
whether  — " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Your  governor's  married  again.  It  hap- 
pened yesterday.  I  thought  perhaps  you  didn't 
know." 

There  was  dead  silence  for  an  instant. 

"  Xo,  I  didn't  know,"  said  Frank.  "  Who's  he 
married?  " 

"  Somebody  I  never  heard  of.  I  wondered 
whether  you  knew  her." 

"  What's  her  name?" 

"  Wait  a  second,"  said  the  other,  plunging  under 
his  greatcoat  to  get  at  his  waistcoat  pocket.  "  I've 
got  the  paragraph  here.  I  cut  it  out  of  the  Morn- 


388  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ing  Post.  I  only  saw  it  half  an  hour  ago.  I  was 
coming  round  to  you  this  evening." 

He  produced  a  slip  of  printed  paper.  Frank 
stood  still  a  moment,  leaning  against  some  area- 
railings —  they  were  in  the  distinguished  quarter  of 
Victoria  Park  Road  —  and  read  the  paragraph 
through.  The  clergyman  watched  him  curiously. 
It  seemed  to  him  a  very  remarkable  situation  that 
he  should  be  standing  here  in  Victoria  Park  Road, 
giving  information  to  a  son  as  to  his  father's  mar- 
riage. He  wondered,  but  only  secondarily,  what 
effect  it  would  have  upon  Frank. 

Frank  gave  him  the  paper  back  without  a  tremor. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  said.  "No;  I  didn't 
know." 

They  continued  to  walk. 

"  D'you  know  her  at  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  her.  She's  the  Rector's  daughter, 
you  know." 

"  What !  At  Merefield  ?  Then  you  must  know 
her  quite  well." 

"  Oh!  yes,"  said  Frank,  "  I  know  her  quite  well." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Then  the  other  burst 
out: 

"  Look  here  —  I  wish  you'd  let  me  do  something. 
It  seems  to  me  perfectly  ghastly — " 

"  My    dear    man,"    said    Frank.     "  Indeed    you 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  389 

can't  do  anything.  .  You  got  my  note, 

didn't  you?  " 

The  clergyman  nodded. 

"  It's  just  in  case  I'm  ill,  or  anything,  you  know. 
Jack's  a  great  friend  of  mine.  And  it's  just  as 
well  that  some  friend  of  mine  should  be  able  to  find 
out  where  I  am.  I've  just  written  to  him  myself, 
as  I  said  in  my  note.  But  you  mustn't  give  him  my 
address  unless  in  case  of  real  need." 

"  All  right.     But  are  you  sure  — " 

"I'm  perfectly  sure.  .  .  .  Oh!  by  the  way, 
that  lady  you  sent  round  did  no  good.  I  expect 
she  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  said  she'd  never  come  across  such  a 
difficult  case." 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  try  again  myself.  .  .  . 
I  must  turn  off  here.  Good  luck !  " 


(IV) 

Gertie  was  sitting  alone  in  the  kitchen  about  nine 
o'clock  that  night  —  alone,  that  is  to  say,  except  for 
the  sleeping  'Erb,  who,  in  a  cot  at  the  foot  of  his 
mother's  bed,  was  almost  invisible  under  a  pile  of 
clothes,  and  completely  negligible  as  a  witness.  Mrs. 
Partington,  with  the  other  two  children,  was  paying 
a  prolonged  visit  in  Mortimer  Road,  and  the  Major, 


390  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ignorant  of  this  fact,  was  talking  big  in  the  bar  of 
the  "  Queen's  Arms  "  opposite  the  Men's  Club  of 
the  Eton  Mission. 

Gertie  was  enjoying  herself  just  now,  on  the 
whole.  It  is  true  that  she  had  received  some  chas- 
tisement yesterday  from  the  Major ;  but  she  had 
the  kind  of  nature  that  preferred  almost  any  sensa- 
tion to  none.  And,  indeed,  the  situation  was  full 
of  emotion.  It  was  extraordinarily  pleasant  to  her 
to  occupy  such  a  position  between  two  men  —  and, 
above  all,  two  "  gentlemen."  Her  attitude  towards 
the  Major  was  of  the  most  simple  and  primitive 
kind ;  he  was  her  man,  who  bullied  her,  despised  her, 
dragged  her  about  the  country;  and  she  never  for 
one  instant  forgot  that  he  had  once  been  an  officer 
in  the  army.  Even  his  blows  (which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  were  not  very  frequent,  and  were  always  ad- 
ministered in  a  judicial  kind  of  way)  bore  with 
them  a  certain  stamp  of  brilliance;  she  possessed  a 
very  pathetic  capacity  for  snobbishness.  Frank,  on 
the  other  side,  was  no  less  exciting.  She  regarded 
him  as  a  good  young  man,  almost  romantic,  indeed, 
in  his  goodness  —  a  kind  of  Sir  Galahad;  and  he, 
whatever  his  motive  (and  she  was  sometimes  terribly 
puzzled  about  his  motives),  at  any  rate,  stood  in  a 
sort  of  rivalry  to  the  Major ;  and  it  was  she  who  was 
the  cause  of  contention.  She  loved  to  feel  herself 
pulled  this  way  and  that  by  two  such  figures,  to  be 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  391 

quarreled  over  by  such  very  strong  and  opposite 
types.  It  was  a  vague  sensation  to  her,  but  very 
vivid  and  attractive;  and  although  just  now  she  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  thoroughly  miserable,  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever  that  she  was  enjoying  it  all  im- 
mensely. She  was  very  feminine  indeed,  and  the 
little  scene  of  last  night  had  brought  matters  to  an 
almost  exquisite  point.  She  was  crying  a  little 
now,  gently,  to  herself. 

The  door  opened.  Frank  came  in,  put  down  his 
cap,  and  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  by  the  fire. 

"  All  out  ?  "  he  asked. 

Gertie  nodded,  and  made  a  little  broken  sound. 

"  Very  good,"  said  Frank.  "  Then  I'm  going  to 
talk  to  you." 

Gertie  wiped  away  a  few  more  tears,  and  settled 
herself  down  for  a  little  morbid  pleasure.  It  was 
delightful  to  her  to  be  found  crying  over  the  fire. 
Frank,  at  any  rate,  would  appreciate  that. 

"  Now,"  said  Frank,  "  you've  got  the  choice  once 
more,  and  I'm  going  to  put  it  plainly.  If  you  don't 
do  what  I  want  this  time,  I  shall  have  to  see  whether 
somebody  else  can't  persuade  you." 

She  glanced  up,  a  little  startled. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Frank.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
take  any  more  trouble  myself  over  this  affair.  You 
were  a  good  deal  upset  yesterday  when  the  lady 


392  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

came  round,  and  you'll  be  more  upset  yet  before  the 
thing's  over.  I  shan't  talk  to  you  myself  any  more : 
you  don't  seem  to  care  a  hang  what  I  say;  in  fact, 
I'm  thinking  of  moving  my  lodgings  after  Christ- 
mas. So  now  you've  got  your  choice." 

He  paused. 

"On  the  one  side  you've  got  the  Major;  well, 
you  know  him;  you  know  the  way  he  treats  you. 
But  that's  not  the  reason  why  I  want  you  to  leave 
him.  I  want  you  to  leave  him  because  I  think  that 
down  at  the  bottom  you've  got  the  makings  of  a 
good  woman  — " 

"  I  haven't,"  cried  Gertie  passionately. 

"  Well,  I  think  you  have.  You're  very  patient, 
and  you're  very  industrious,  and  because  you  care 
for  this  man  you'll  do  simply  anything  in  the  world 
for  him.  Well,  that's  splendid.  That  shows 
you've  got  grit.  But  have  you  ever  thought  what 
it'll  all  be  like  in  five  years  from  now  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  dead,"  wailed  Gertie.  "  I  wish  I  was 
dead  now." 

Frank  paused. 

"  And  when  you're  dead — ?  "  he  said  slowly. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Then  Frank  took 
up  his  discourse  again.  (So  far  he  had  done  ex- 
actly what  he  had  wanted.  He  had  dropped  two 
tiny  ideas  on  her  heart  once  more  —  hope  and  fear. ) 

"  Now  I've  something  to  tell  you.     Do  you  re- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  393 

member  the  last  time  I  talked  to  you?  Well,  I've 
been  thinking  what  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  and  a 
few  days  ago  I  saw  my  chance  and  took  it.  You've 
got  a  little  prayer-book  down  at  the  bottom  of  your 
bundle,  haven't  you?  Well,  I  got  at  that  (you 
never  let  anyone  see  it,  you  know),  and  I  looked 
through  it.  I  looked  through  all  your  things.  Did 
you  know  your  address  was  written  in  it  ?  I  wasn't 
sure  it  was  your  address,  you  know,  until  — " 

Gertie  sat  up,  white  with  passion. 

"  You  looked  at  my  things  ?  " 

Frank  looked  her  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  he  said.  "  Wait 
till  I've  done.  .  .  .  Well,  I  wrote  to  the  ad- 
dress, and  I  got  an  answer ;  then  I  wrote  again,  and 
I  got  another  answer  and  a  letter  for  you.  It  came 
this  morning,  to  the  post-office  where  I  got  it." 

Gertie  looked  at  him,  still  white,  with  her  lips 
parted. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  she  whispered. 

soon  as  I've  done  talking,"  said  Frank  se- 
renely. "  You've  got  to  listen  to  me  first.  I 
knew  what  you'd  say:  you'd  say  that  your  people 
wouldn't  have  you  back.  And  I  knew  perfectly 
well  from  the  little  things  you'd  said  about  them 
that  they  would.  But  I  wrote  to  make  sure.  .  .  . 

"  Gertie,  d'you  know  that  they're  breaking  their 
hearts  for  you?  .  .  .  that  there's  nothing  in 

26 


394  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  whole  world  they  want  so  much  as  that  you 
should  come  back?  .  .  ." 

"  Give  me  the  letter !  " 

"You've  got  a  good  heart  yourself,  Geriie;  I 
know  that  well  enough.  Think  hard,  before  I  give 
you  the  letter.  Which  is  best  —  the  Major  and  this 
sort  of  life  —  and  .  .  .  and  —  well,  you  know 
about  the  soul  and  God,  don't  you?  .  .  .  or  to 
go  home,  and  — " 

Her  face  shook  all  over  for  one  instant. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  she  wailed  suddenly. 

Then  Frank  gave  it  her. 


(v) 

"  But  I  can't  possibly  go  home  like  this,"  whis- 
pered Gertie  agitatedly  in  the  passage,  after  the 
Major's  return  half  an  hour  later. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  whispered  Frank,  "  what  an  ex- 
traordinary girl  you  are,  to  think  — " 

"  I  don't  care.     I  can't,  and  I  won't." 

Frank  cast  an  eye  at  the  door,  beyond  which 
dozed  the  Major  in  the  chair  before  the  fire. 

"  Well,  what  d'you  want?  " 

"  I  want  another  dress,  and  .  .  .  and  lots  of 
things." 

Frank  stared  at  her  resignedly. 

"  How  much  will  it  all  come  to  ?  " 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  395 

"  I  don't  know.  Two  pounds  —  two  pounds 
ten." 

"  Let's  see :  to-day's  the  twentieth.  We  must 
get  you  back  before  Christmas.  If  I  let  you  have 
it  to-morrow,  will  it  do?  —  to-morrow  night?" 

She  nodded.  A  sound  came  from  beyond  the 
door,  and  she  fled. 

I  am  not  sure  about  the  details  of  the  manner  in 
which  Frank  got  the  two  pounds  ten,  but  I  know  he 
got  it,  and  without  taking  charity  from  a  soul. 
I  know  that  he  managed  somehow  to  draw  his 
week's  money  two  days  before  pay-day,  and  for 
the  rest,  I  suspect  the  pawnshop.  What  is  quite 
certain  is  that  when  his  friends  were  able  to  take 
stock  of  his  belongings  a  little  later,  the  list  of  them 
was  as  follows: 

One  jacket,  one  shirt,  one  muffler,  a  pair  of  trous- 
ers, a  pair  of  socks,  a  pair  of  boots,  one  cap,  one 
tooth-brush,  and  a  rosary.  There  was  absolutely 
nothing  else.  Even  his  razor  was  gone. 

Things,  therefore,  were  pretty  bad  with  him  on 
the  morning  of  the  twenty-second  of  December. 
I  imagine  that  he  still  possessed  a  few  pence,  but 
out  of  this  few  pence  he  had  to  pay  for  his  own  and 
Gertie's  journey  to  Chiswick,  as  well  as  keep  him- 
self alive  for  another  week.  At  least,  so  he  must 
have  thought. 


396  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

It  must  have  been  somewhere  in  Kensington 
High  Street  that  he  first  had  a  hint  of  a  possibility 
of  food  to  be  obtained  free,  for,  although  I  find  it 
impossible  to  follow  all  his  movements  during  these 
days,  it  is  quite  certain  that  he  partook  of  the  hos- 
pitality of  the  Carmelite  Fathers  on  this  morning. 
He  mentions  it,  with  pleasure,  in  his  diary. 

It  is  a  very  curious  and  medieval  sight  —  this 
feeding  of  the  poor  in  the  little  deep  passage  that 
runs  along  the  outside  of  the  cloister  of  the  monas- 
tery in  Church  Street.  The  passage  is  approached 
by  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  house,  opening  upon 
the  lane  behind,  and  at  a  certain  hour  on  each  morn- 
ing of  the  year  is  thronged  from  end  to  end  with 
the  most  astonishing  and  deplorable  collection  of 
human  beings  to  be  seen  in  London.  They  are  of 
all  ages  and  sizes,  from  seventeen  to  seventy,  and 
the  one  thing  common  to  them  all  is  extreme  shab- 
biness  and  poverty. 

A  door  opens  at  a  given  moment;  the  crowd 
surges  a  little  towards  a  black-bearded  man  in  a 
brown  frock,  with  an  apron  over  it,  and  five  min- 
utes later  a  deep  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sound 
of  supping  and  swallowing,  falls  upon  the  crowd. 
There  they  stand,  with  the  roar  of  London  sounding 
overhead,  the  hooting  of  cars,  the  noise  of  innumer- 
able feet,  and  the  rain  —  at  least,  on  this  morning 
—  falling  dismally  down  the  long  well-like  space. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  397 

And  here  stand  between  two  and  three  hundred 
men,  pinched,  feeble,  and  yet  wolfish,  gulping  down 
hot  soup  and  bread,  looking  something  like  a  herd 
of  ragged  prisoners  pent  in  between  the  high  walls. 

Here,  then,  Frank  stood  in  the  midst  of  them, 
gulping  his  soup.  His  van  and  horses,  strictly 
against  orders,  remained  in  Church  Street,  under  the 
care  of  a  passer-by,  whom  Frank  seems  to  have 
asked,  quite  openly,  to  do  it  for  him  for  God's  sake. 

It  is  a  dreary  little  scene  in  which  to  picture  him, 
and  yet,  to  myself,  it  is  rather  pleasant,  too.  I  like 
to  think  of  him,  now  for  the  second  time  within  a 
few  weeks,  and  all  within  the  first  six  months  of  his 
Catholic  life,  depending  upon  his  Church  for  the 
needs  of  the  body  as  well  as  for  the  needs  of  the 
soul.  There"  was  nothing  whatever  to  distinguish 
him  from  the  rest;  he,  too,  had  now  something  of 
that  lean  look  that  is  such  a  characteristic  of  that 
crowd,  and  his  dress,  too,  wras  entirely  suitable  to  his 
company.  He  spoke  with  none  of  his  hosts ;  he  took 
the  basin  in  silence  and  gave  it  back  in  silence ;  then 
he  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve,  and  went  out  com- 
forted. 


CHAPTER  V 


"T\ICK  GUISELEY  sat  over  breakfast  in  his 
•*^  rooms  off  Oxford  Street,  entirely  engrossed 
in  a  local  Yorkshire  paper  two  days  old. 

His  rooms  were  very  characteristic  of  himself. 
They  were  five  in  number  —  a  dining-room,  two 
bedrooms,  and  two  sitting-rooms  divided  by  cur- 
tains, as  well  as  a  little  entrance-hall  that  opened  on 
to  the  landing,  close  beside  the  lift  that  served  all 
the  flats.  They  were  furnished  in  a  peculiarly  re- 
strained style  —  so  restrained,  in  fact,  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  remember  what  was  in  them. 
One  was  just  conscious  of  a  sense  of  extreme  com- 
fort and  convenience.  There  was  nothing  in  par- 
ticular that  arrested  the  attention  or  caught  the  eye, 
except  here  and  there  a  space  or  a  patch  of  wall 
about  which  Dick  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind. 
He  had  been  in  them  two  years,  indeed,  but  he  had 
not  nearly  finished  furnishing.  From  time  to  time 
a  new  piece  of  furniture  appeared,  or  a  new  pic- 
ture —  always  exceedingly  good  of  its  kind,  and 
even  conspicuous.  Yet,  somehow  or  other,  so  ex- 
cellent was  his  taste,  as  soon  as  the  thing  was  in 
398 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  399 

place  its  conspicuousness  (so  to  speak)  vanished 
amidst  the  protective  coloring,  and  it  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  there  for  ever.  The  colors  were  chosen 
with  the  same  superfine  skill :  singly  they  were  bril- 
liant, or  at  least  remarkable  (the  ceilings,  for  in- 
stance, were  of  a  rich  buttercup  yellow) ;  collectively 
they  were  subdued  and  unnoticeable.  And  I  sup- 
pose this  is  exactly  what  rooms  ought  to  be. 

The  breakfast-table  at  which  he  sat  was  a  good 
instance  of  his  taste.  The  silver-plate  on  it  was 
really  remarkable.  There  was  a  delightful  Caro- 
line tankard  in  the  middle,  placed  there  for  the  sheer 
pleasure  of  looking  at  it;  there  was  a  large  silver 
cow  \\itli  a  lid  in  its  back;  there  were  four  rat-tail 
spoons ;  the  china  was  an  extremely  cheap  Venetian 
crockery  of  brilliant  designs  and  thick  make.  The 
coffee-pot  and  milk-pot  were  early  Georgian,  with 
very  peculiar  marks ;  but  these  vessels  were  at  pres- 
ent hidden  under  the  folded  newspaper.  There 
were  four  chrysanthemums  in  four  several  vases 
of  an  exceptional  kind  of  glass.  It  sounds  start- 
ling, I  know,  but  the  effect  was  not  startling,  though 
I  cannot  imagine  why  not.  Here  again  one  was 
just  conscious  of  freshness  and  suitability  and  com- 
fort. 

But  Dick  was  taking  no  pleasure  in  it  all  this 
morning.  He  was  feeling  almost  physically  sick. 


400  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  the  little  spirit-heated  silver  dish  of  kidneys  on 
his  Queen  Anne  sideboard  was  undisturbed.  He 
had  cut  off  the  top  of  an  egg  which  was  now  rap- 
idly cooling,  and  a  milky  surface  resembling  thin 
ice  was  forming  on  the  contents  of  his  coffee-cup. 
And  meanwhile  he  read. 

The  column  he  was  reading  described  the  wed- 
ding of  his  uncle  with  Miss  Jenny  Launton,  and 
journalese  surpassed  itself.  There  was  a  great  deal 
about  the  fine  old  English  appearance  of  the  bride- 
groom, who,  it  appeared,  had  been  married  in  a 
black'  frock-coat  and  gray  trousers,  with  white  spats, 
and  who  had  worn  a  chrysanthemum  in  his  button- 
hole (Dick  cast  an  almost  venomous  glance  upon 
the  lovely  blossom  just  beside  the  paper),  and  the 
beautiful  youthful  dignity  of  the  bride,  "  so  popu- 
lar among  the  humble  denizens  of  the  country- 
side." The  bride's  father,  it  seemed,  had  officiated 
at  the  wedding  in  the  "  sturdy  old  church,"  and  had 
been  greatly  affected  —  assisted  by  the  Rev.  — 
Matthieson.  The  wedding,  it  seemed,  had  been  un- 
usually quiet,  and  had  been  celebrated  by  special 
license:  few  of  the  family  had  been  present,  "ow- 
ing," said  the  discreet  reporter,  "  to  the  express 
wish  of  the  bridegroom."  (Dick  reflected  sardon- 
ically upon  his  own  convenient  attack  of  influenza 
from  which  he  was  now  completely  recovered.) 
Then  there  was  a  great  deal  more  about  the  ancient 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  401 

home  of  the  Guiseleys,  and  the  aristocratic  appear- 
ance of  Viscount  Merefield,  the  young  and  popular 
heir  to  the  earldom,  who,  it  appeared,  had  assisted 
at  the  wedding  in  another  black  frock-coat.  Gen- 
eral Maimvaring  had  acted  as  best  man.  Finally, 
there  was  a  short  description  of  the  presents  of  the 
bridegroom  to  the  bride,  which  included  a  set  of 
amethysts,  etc.  .  .  . 

Dick  read  it  all  through  to  the  luxuriant  end, 
clown  to  the  peals  of  the  bells  and  the  rejoicings  in 
the  evening.  He  ate  several  pieces  of  dry  toast 
while  he  read,  crumbling  them  quickly  with  his  left 
hand,  and  when  he  had  finished,  drank  his  coffee 
straight  off  at  one  draught.  Then  he  got  up,  still 
with  the  paper,  sat  down  in  the  easy-chair  nearest 
to  the  fire  and  read  the  whole  thing  through  once 
more.  Then  he  pushed  the  paper  off  his  knee  and 
leaned  back. 

It  would  need  a  complete  psychological  treatise 
to  analyze  properly  all  the  emotions  he  had  recently 
gone  through  —  emotions  which  had  been,  so  to 
say,  developed  and  "  fixed  "  by  the  newspaper  col- 
umn he  had  just  read.  He  was  a  man  who  was  ac- 
customed to  pride  himself  secretly  upon  the  speed 
with  which  he  faced  each  new  turn  of  fortune,  and 
the  correctness  of  the  attitude  he  assumed.  Per- 


402  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

haps  it  would  be  fair  to  say  that  the  Artistic  Stoic 
was  the  ideal  towards  which  he  strove.  But,  some- 
how, those  emotions  would  not  sort  themselves. 
There  they  all  were  —  fury,  indignation,  contempt, 
wounded  pride,  resignation,  pity  —  there  were  no 
more  to  be  added  or  subtracted ;  each  had  its  place 
and  its  object,  yet  they  would  not  coalesce.  Now 
fury  against  his  uncle,  now  pity  for  himself,  now 
a  poisonous  kind  of  contempt  of  Jenny.  Or,  again, 
a  primitive  kind  of  longing  for  Jenny,  a  disregard 
of  his  uncle,  an  abasement  of  himself.  The  emo- 
tions whirled  and  twisted,  and  he  sat  quite  still,  with 
his  eyes  closed,  watching  them. 

But  there  was  one  more  emotion  which  had  made 
its  appearance  entirely  unexpectedly  as  soon  as  he 
had  heard  the  news,  that  now,  greatly  to  his  sur- 
prise, was  beginning  to  take  a  considerable  place 
amongst  the  rest  —  and  this  was  an  extraordinarily 
warm  sense  of  affection  towards  Frank  —  of  all 
people.  It  was  composed  partly  of  compassion,  and 
partly  of  an  inexplicable  sort  of  respect  for  which 
he  could  perceive  no  reason.  It  was  curious,  he 
thought  later,  why  this  one  figure  should  have 
pushed  its  way  to  the  front  just  now,  when  his  uncle 
and  Jenny  and,  secondarily,  that  Rector  ( "  so  visi- 
bly affected  by  the  ceremony  " )  should  have  occu- 
pied all  the  field.  Frank  had  never  meant  very 
much  to  Dick :  he  had  stood  for  the  undignified  and 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  403 

the  boyish  in  tin  midst  of  those  other  stately  ele- 
ments oi'  which  Meretield,  and,  indeed,  all  truly  ad- 
mirable life,  \\as  composed. 

Yet  now  this  figure  stood  out  before  him  with 
startling  distinctness. 

First  there  was  the  fact  that  both  Frank  and  him- 
self had  suffered  cruelly  at  the  hands  of  the  same 
woman,  though  Frank  incomparably  the  more  cru- 
elly of  the  two.  Dick  had  the  honesty  to  confess 
that  Jenny  had  at  least  never  actually  broken  faith 
with  himself;  but  he  had  also  the  perspicuity  to  see 
that  it  came  to  very  nearly  the  same  thing.  He 
knew  with  the  kind  of  certitude  that  neither  needs 
nor  appeals  to  evidence  that  Jenny  would  certainly 
have  accepted  him  if  it  had  not  been  that  Lord  Tal- 
garth  had  already  dawned  on  her  horizon,  and  that 
she  put  him  off  for  a  while  simply  to  see  whether 
this  elderly  sun  would  rise  yet  higher  in  the  heav- 
ens. It  was  the  same  consideration,  no  doubt,  that 
had  caused  her  to  throw  Frank  over  a  month  or  two 
earlier.  A  Lord  Talgarth  in  the  bush  was  worth 
two  cadets  in  the  hand.  That  was  where  her  sensi- 
bleness  had  come  in,  and  certainly  it  had  served 
her  well. 

It  was  this  community  of  injury,  then,  that  pri- 
marily drew  Dick's  attention  to  Frank;  and,  when 
once  it  had  been  so  drawn,  it  lingered  on  other 
points  in  his  personality.  Artistic  Stoicism  is  a 


404  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

very  satisfying  ideal  so  long  as  things  go  tolerably 
well.  It  affords  an  excellent  protection  against 
such  misfortunes  as  those  of  not  being  appreciated 
or  of  losing  money  or  just  missing  a  big  position  — 
against  all  such  ills  as  affect  bodily  or  mental  con- 
veniences. But  when  the  heart  is  touched,  Artistic 
Stoicism  peels  off  like  rusted  armour.  Dick  had 
seriously  began  to  consider,  during  the  last  few 
days,  whether  the  exact  opposite  of  Artistic  Sto- 
icism (let  us  call  it  Natural  Impulsiveness)  is  not 
almost  as  good  an  equipment.  He  began  to  see 
something  admirable  in  Frank's  attitude  to  life,  and 
the  more  he  regarded  it  the  more  admirable  it 
seemed. 

Frank,  therefore,  had  begun  to  wear  to  him  the 
appearance  of  something  really  moving  and  pa- 
thetic. He  had  had  a  communication  or  two  from 
Jack  Kirkby  that  had  given  him  a  glimpse  of  what 
Frank  was  going  through,  and  his  own  extremely 
artificial  self  was  beginning  to  be  affected  by  it. 

He  looked  round  his  room  now,  once  or  twice, 
wondering  whether  it  was  all  worth  while.  He  had 
put  his  whole  soul  into  these  rooms  —  there  was  that 
Jacobean  press  with  the  grotesque  heads  —  ah !  how 
long  he  had  agonized  over  that  in  the  shop  in  the 
King's  Road,  Chelsea,  wondering  whether  or  not  it 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  405 

would  do  just  what  he  wanted,  in  that  space  be- 
iwcen  the  two  doors.  There  was  that  small  statue 
of  a  Tudor  lady  in  a  square  head-dress  that  he  had 
bought  in  Oxford :  he  had  occupied  at  least  a  week 
in  deciding  exactly  from  what  point  she  was  to 
smile  on  him;  there  was  the  new  curtain  dividing  the 
two  rooms :  he  had  had  half  a  dozen  patterns,  gradu- 
ally eliminated  down  to  two,  lying  over  his  sofa- 
back  for  ten  days  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind. 
(How  lovely  it  looked,  by  the  way,  just  now,  with 
that  patch  of  mellow  London  sunlight  lying  across 
the  folds!) 

But  was  it  all  worth  it  ?  ...  He  argued  the 
point  with  himself,  almost  passively,  stroking  his 
brown  beard  meditatively ;  but  the  fact  that  he  could 
argue  it  at  all  showed  that  the  foundations  of  his 
philosophy  were  shaken. 

Well,  then  .  .  .  Frank  .  .  .  What 
about  him?  Where  was  he? 

(n) 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  key  turned  in  his  outer 
door  and  a  very  smart-looking  page-boy  came 
through,  after  tapping,  with  a  telegram  on  a  salver. 

Dick  was  writing  to  Hamilton's,  in  Berners 
Street,  about  a  question  of  gray  mats  for  the  spare 
bedroom,  and  he  took  the  telegram  and  tore  open 


406  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  envelope  with  a  preoccupied  air.     Then  he  ut- 
tered a  small  exclamation. 
"Any  answer,  sir?" 
"  No.     Yes.     .     .     .     Wait  a  second." 
He  took  a  telegraph- form  with  almost  indecent 
haste,  addressed  it  to  John  Kirkby,  Barham,  Yorks, 
and  wrote  below: 

"Certainly;  will  expect  you  dinner  and  sleep. — 
RICHARD  GUISELEY." 

Then,  when  the  boy  had  gone,  he  read  again  the 
telegram  he  had  received : 

"  Have  received  letter  from  Frank;  can  probably 
discover  address  if  I  come  to  town.  Can  you  put 
me  up  to-night? — JACK  KIRKBY,  Barham." 

He  pondered  it  a  minute  or  so.  Then  he  finished 
his  note  to  Hamilton's,  but  it  was  with  a  distracted 
manner.  Then  for  several  minutes  he  walked  up 
and  down  his  rooms  with  his  hands  in  his  jacket- 
pockets,  thinking  very  deeply.  He  was  reflecting 
how  remarkable  it  was  that  he  should  hear  of  Frank 
again  just  at  this  time,  and  was  wondering  what 
the  next  move  of  Providence  would  be. 

The  rest  of  Dick's  day  was  very  characteristic  of 
him;  and  considering  my  other  personages  in  this 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  407 

story  and  their  occupations,  I  take  a  dramatic  sort 
of  pleasure  in  writing  it  down. 

He  went  out  to  lunch  with  a  distinguished  lady 
of  his  acquaintance  —  whose  name  I  forbear  to 
give;  she  was  not  less  than  seventy  years  old,  and 
the  two  sat  talking  scandal  about  all  their  friends 
till  nearly  four  o'clock.  The  Talgarth  affair,  even, 
was  discussed  in  all  its  possible  lights,  and  Dick 
was  quite  open  about  his  own  part  in  the  matter. 
He  knew  this  old  lady  very  well,  and  she  knew  him 
very  well.  She  was  as  shrewd  as  possible  and  ex- 
tremely experienced,  and  had  helped  Dick  enor- 
mously in  various  intricacies  and  troubles  of  the 
past ;  and  he,  on  the  other  hand,  as  a  well-informed 
bachelor,  was  of  almost  equal  service  to  her.  She 
was  just  the  least  bit  in  the  world  losing  touch  with 
things  (at  seventy  you  cannot  do  everything),  and 
Dick  helped  to  keep  her  in  touch.  He  lunched  with 
her  at  least  once  a  week  when  they  were  both  in 
town. 

At  four  he  went  to  the  Bath  Club,  ordered  tea 
and  toast  and  cigarettes,  and  sat  out,  with  his  hat 
over  his  eyes,  on  the  balcony,  watching  the  swim- 
mers. There  was  a  boy  of  sixteen  who  dived  with 
surprising  skill,  and  Dick  took  the  greatest  possible 
pleasure  in  observing  him.  There  was  also  a  stout 
man  of  his  acquaintance  whose  ambition  it  had  been 
for  months  to  cross  the  bath  by  means  of  the  swing- 


4o8  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ing  rings,  and  this  person,  too,  afforded  him  hardly 
less  pleasure,  as  he  always  had  to  let  go  at  the 
fourth  ring,  if  not  the  third,  whence  he  plunged  into 
the  water  with  a  sound  that,  curiously  enough,  was 
more  resonant  than  sibilant. 

At  six,  after  looking  through  all  the  illustrated 
papers,  he  went  out  to  get  his  coat,  and  was  pres- 
ently in  the  thick  of  a  heated  argument  with  a 
member  of  the  committee  on  the  subject  of  the  new 
carpet  in  the  front  hall.  It  was  not  fit,  said  Dick 
(searching  for  hyperboles),  for  even  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  "  Cecil." 

This  argument  made  him  a  little  later  than  he 
had  intended,  and,  as  he  came  up  in  the  lift,  the 
attendant  informed  him,  in  the  passionless  manner 
proper  to  such  people,  that  the  Mr.  Kirkby  who  had 
been  mentioned  had  arrived  and  was  waiting  for 
him  in  his  rooms. 


(m) 

Shortly  before  midnight  Dick  attempted  to  sum 
up  the  situation.  They  had  talked  about  Frank 
practically  without  ceasing,  since  Dick's  man  had 
set  coffee  on  the  table  at  nine  o'clock,  and  both  had 
learned  new  facts. 

"  Well,  then,  wire  to  go  down  to  this  man,  Par- 
ham-Carter,"  said  Dick,  "  the  first  thing  after  break- 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  409 

fast  to-morrow.  Do  you  know  anything  about  the 
Eton  Mission  ?  " 

"  No.  One  used  to  have  a  collection  for  it  each 
half,  you  know,  in  the  houses." 

"  How  do  we  go  ?  " 

"  Oh !  railway  from  Broad  Street.  I've  looked 
it  up.  Victoria  Park's  the  station." 

Dick  drew  two  or  three  draughts  of  smoke  from 
his  cigar-butt,  and  laid  it  down  in  a  small  silver 
tray  at  his  elbow.  (The  tray  was  a  gift  from  the 
old  lady  he  had  lunched  with  to-day.) 

"  All  you've  told  me  is  extraordinarily  interest- 
ing," he  said.  "  It  really  was  to  get  away  this  girl 
that  he's  stopped  so  long?  " 

"I  expect  that's  what  he  tells  himself  —  that's 
the  handle,  so  to  speak.  But  it's  chiefly  a  sort  of 
obstinacy.  He  said  he  would  go  on  the  roads,  and 
so  he's  gone." 

"  I  rather  like  that,  you  know,"  said  Dick. 

Jack  snorted  a  little. 

"  Oh,  it's  better  than  saying  a  thing  and  not  doing 
it.  But  why  say  it?" 

"  Oh !  one  must  do  something,"  said  Dick.  "  At 
least,  some  people  seem  to  think  so.  And  I  rather 
envy  them,  you  know.  I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"Don't  what?" 

"  Don't  do  anything.  Unless  you  can  call  this 
sort  of  thing  doing  something."  He  waved  his 

27 


410  XOXE  OTHER  GODS 

hand  vaguely  round  his  perfectly  arranged  room. 

Jack  said  nothing.  He  was  inclined  to  be  a  little 
strenuous  himself  in  some  ways,  and  he  had  always 
been  conscious  of  a  faint  annoyance  with  Dick's 
extreme  leisureliness. 

"  I  see  you  agree,"  went  on  Dick.  "  Well,  we 
must  see  what  can  be  done." 

He  stood  up  smiling  and  began  to  expand  and 
contract  his  fingers  luxuriously  before  the  fire  be- 
hind his  back. 

"If  we  can  only  get  Frank  away,"  murmured 
Jack.  "  That's  enough  for  the  present." 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  with  him 
then?" 

"Oh,  Lord!  Anything.  Go  round  the  world  if 
he  likes.  Come  and  stay  at  my  place." 

"  And  suppose  he  thinks  that's  a  bit  too  near  to 
...  to  Lady  Talgarth." 

This  switched  Jack  back  again  to  a  line  he  had 
already  run  on  for  an  hour  this  evening. 

"Yes,  that's  the  ghastly  part  of  it  all.  He's 
sure  not  to  have  heard.  And  who  the  devil's  to  tell 
him?  And  how  will  he  take  it?" 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Dick,  "  I'm  really  not 
frightened  about  that?  All  you've  told  me  about 
him  makes  me  think  he'll  behave  very  well.  Funny 
thing,  isn't  it,  that  you  know  him  so  much  better 


NONE  OTHMi:  CiODS  411 

than  I  do?  I  never  dreamed  there  was  so  much  in 
him,  somehow." 

"  Oh,  there's  a  lot  in  Frank.  But  one  doesn't 
always  know  what  it  is." 

"  Do  you  think  his  religion's  made  much  differ- 
ence ?  " 

"  I  think  it's  done  this  for  him,"  said  Jack 
slowly.  "  (I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  that). 
I  think  it's  fixed  things,  so  to  speak.  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated.  He  was  not  an  expert  in  psychological 
analysis.  Dick  took  him  up  quickly.  He  nodded 
three  or  four  times. 

"  Exactly,"  he  said.  "  That's  it,  no  doubt.  It's 
given  him  a  center  —  a  hub  for  the  wheel." 

"El. 

"  It's  .  .  .  it's  joined  everything  on  to  one 
point  in  him.  He'll  be  more  obstinate  and  mad  than 
ever  before.  He's  got  a  center  now.  ...  I 
suppose  that's  what  religion's  for,"  he  added  medi- 
tatively. 

This  was  Greek  to  Jack.  He  looked  at  Dick 
uncomprehendingly. 

Dick  turned  round  and  began  to  stare  into  the 
fire,  still  contracting  and  expanding  his  fingers. 

"It's  a  funny  thing  —  this  religion,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  I  never  could  understand  it." 

"  And  what  about  Archie?  "  asked  Jack  with  sud- 


4I2  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

den  abruptness.     (He  had  no  continuity  of  mind.) 

Dick  brought  his  meditations  to  a  close  with  equal 
abruptness,  or  perhaps  he  would  not  have  been  so 
caustic  as  regards  his  first  cousin. 

"  Oh,  Archie's  an  ass !  "  he  said.  "  We  can  leave 
him  out." 

Jack  changed  the  subject  again.  He  was  feeling 
the  situation  very  acutely  indeed,  and  the  result 
was  that  all  its  elements  came  tumbling  out  any- 
how. 

"  I've  been  beastly  uncomfortable,"  he  said. 

"  Yes?  "  said  Dick.     "  Any  particular  way?  " 

Jack  shifted  one  leg  over  the  other.  He  had  not 
approached  one  element  in  the  situation  at  all,  as 
yet,  with  Dick,  but  it  had  been  simmering  in  him 
for  weeks,  and  had  been  brought  to  a  point  by 
Frank's  letter  received  this  morning.  And  now  the 
curious  intimacy  into  which  he  had  been  brought 
with  Dick  began  to  warm  it  out  of  him. 

"  You'll  think  me  an  ass,  too,  I  expect,"  he  said. 
"And  I  rather  think  it's  true.  But  I  can't  help 
it." 

Dick  smiled  at  him  encouragingly.  (Certainly, 
thought  Jack,  this  man  was  nicer  than  he  had 
thought  him.) 

"  Well,  it's  this  — "  he  said  suddenly.  "  But  it's 
frightfully  hard  to  put  into  words.  You  know 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  413 

what  I  told  you  about  Frank's  coming  to  me  at 
Barham  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  there  was  something  Tie  said  then  that 
made  me  uncomfortable.  And  it's  made  me  more 
and  more  uncomfortable  ever  since.  .  .  ."  (He 
paused  again. )  "  Well,  it's  this.  He  said  that  he 
felt  there  was-  something  going  on  that  he  couldn't 
understand  —  some  sort  of  Plan,  he  said  —  in 
which  he  had  to  take  part  —  a  sort  of  scheme  to 
be  worked  out,  you  know.  I  suppose  he  meant 
God,"  he  explained  feebly. 

Dick  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"  Oh !  I  can't  put  it  into  words,"  said  Jack  des- 
perately. "  Nor  did  he,  exactly.  But  that  was  the 
kind  of  idea.  A  sort  of  Fate.  He  said  he  was 
quite  certain  of  it.  ...  And  there  were  lots 
of  little  things  that  fitted  in.  He  changed  his 
clothes  in  the  old  vestry,  you  know  —  in  the  old 
church.  It  seemed  like  a  sort  of  sacrifice,  you 
know.  And  then  I  had  a  beastly  dream  that  night. 
And  then  there  was  something  my  mother  said. 
.  .  .  And  now  there's  his  letter:  the  one  I 
showed  you  at  dinner  —  about  something  that  might 
happen  to  him.  .  .  .  Oh!  I'm  a  first-class  ass, 
aren't  I?" 

There  was  a  considerable  silence.     He  glanced  up 


4i4  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

in  an  ashamed  sort  of  way,  at  the  other,  and  saw 
him  standing  quite  upright  and  still,  again  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  looking  out  across  the  room.  From 
outside  came  the  hum  of  the  thoroughfare  —  the 
rolling  of  wheels,  the  jingle  of  bells,  the  cries  of 
human  beings.  He  waited  in  a  kind  of  shame  for 
Dick's  next  words.  He  had  not  put  all  these  feel- 
ings into  coherent  form  before,  even  to  himself,  and 
they  sounded  now  even  more  fantastic  than  he  had 
thought  them.  He  waited,  then,  for  the  verdict  of 
this  quiet  man,  whom  up  to  now  he  had  deemed 
something  of  a  fool,  who  cared  about  nothing  but 
billiards  and  what  was  called  Art.  (Jack  loathed 
Art.) 

Then  the  verdict  came  in  a  surprising  form.  But 
he  understood  it  perfectly. 

"Well,  what  about  bed?"  said  Dick  quietly. 


(IV) 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth  that 
Mr.  Parham-Carter  was  summoned  by  the  neat 
maid-servant  of  the  clergy-house  to  see  two  gentle- 
men. She  presented  two  cards  on  a  plated  salver, 
inscribed  with  the  names  of  Richard  Guiseley  and 
John  B.  Kirkby.  He  got  up  very  quickly,  and  went 
downstairs  two  at  a  time.  A  minute  later  he 
brought  them  both  upstairs  and  shut  the  door. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  415 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I'm  most  awfully  glad 
you've  come.  I  ...  I've  been  fearfully  up- 
set by  all  this,  and  I  haven't  known  what  to  do." 

"  Now  where  is  he?  "  demanded  Jack  Kirkby. 

The  clergyman  made  a  deprecatory  face. 

"  I've  absolutely  promised  not  to  tell,"  he  said. 
"  And  you  know  — " 

"  But  that's  ridiculous.  We've  come  on  purpose 
to  fetch  him  away.  It  simply  mustn't  go  on. 
That's  why  I  didn't  write.  I  sent  Frank's  letter  on 
to  Mr.  Guiseley  here  (he's  a  cousin  of  Frank's,  by 
the  way),  and  he  asked  me  to  come  up  to  town.  I 
got  to  town  last  night,  and  we've  come  down  here 
at  once  this  morning." 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  glanced  at  the  neat  melan- 
choly-faced, bearded  man  who  sat  opposite. 

"  But  you  know  I  promised,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  burst  in  Jack;  "  but  one  doesn't  keep 
promises  one  makes  to  madmen.  And  — 

"  But  he's  not  mad  in  the  least.     He's  — " 

"Well?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  it  seems  to  me  that  he's 
more  sane  than  anyone  else,"  said  the  young  man 
dismally.  "  I  know  it  sounds  ridiculous,  but  — " 

Dick  Guiseley  nodded  with  such  emphasis  that  he 
stopped. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Dick  in  his  gentle 
drawl.  "  And  I  quite  understand." 


4i6  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  But  it's  all  sickening  rot,"  burst  in  Jack.  "  He 
must  be  mad.  You  don't  know  Frank  as  I  do  — 
neither  of  you.  And  now  there's  this  last  business 
—  his  father's  marriage,  I  mean ;  and  — " 

He  broke  off  and  looked  across  at  Dick. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Dick;  "  don't  mind  me." 

"  Well,  we  don't  know  whether  he's  heard  of  it 
or  not;  but  he  must  hear  sooner  or  later,  and 
then—" 

"  But  he  has  heard  of  it,"  interrupted  the  clergy- 
man. "  I  showed  him  the  paragraph  myself." 

"  He's  heard  of  it !     And  he  knows  all  about  it !  " 

"  Certainly.  And  I  understood  from  him  that 
he  knew  the  girl:  the  Rector's  daughter,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Knows  the  girl !  Why,  he  was  engaged  to  her 
himself." 

"What?" 

"  Yes ;  didn't  he  tell  you  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  give  me  the  faintest  hint  — " 

"How  did  he  behave?     What  did  he  say?" 

Mr.  Parham-Carter  stared  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  snapped  out  Jack  impa- 
tiently. 

"  Say  ?  He  said  nothing.  He  just  told  me  he 
knew  the  girl,  when  I  asked  him." 

"  Good  God !  "  remarked  Jack.  And  there  was 
silence. 

Dick  broke  it. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  417 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  we're  rather  in  a  hole." 

"  But  it's  preposterous,"  burst  out  Jack  again. 
"  Here's  poor  old  Frank,  simply  breaking  his  heart, 
and  here  are  we  perfectly  ready  to  do  anything  we 
can  —  why,  the  chap  must  be  in  hell !  " 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Parham-Carter,"  said  Dick 
softly.  "  What  about  your  going  round  to  his 
house  and  seeing  if  he's  in,  and  what  he's  likely  to 
be  doing  to-day." 

"  He'll  be  at  the  factory  till  this  evening." 

"The  factory?" 

"  Yes ;  he's  working  at  a  jam  factory  just 
now." 

A  sound  of  fury  and  disdain  broke  from  Jack. 

"Well,"  continued  Dick,  "  (May  I  take  a  ciga- 
rette, by  the  way  ?),  why  shouldn't  you  go  round  and 
make  inquiries,  and  find  out  how  the  land  lies? 
Then  Kirk  by  and  I  might  perhaps  hang  about  a  bit 
and  run  up  against  him  —  if  you'd  just  give  us  a 
hint,  you  know." 

The  other  looked  at  him  a  moment. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  might,"  he  said  doubtfully. 
"  But  what  — " 

"  Good  Lord !  But  you'll  be  keeping  your  prom- 
ise, won't  you?  After  all,  it's  quite  natural  we 
should  come  down  after  his  letter  —  and  quite  on 
the  cards  that  we  should  run  up  against  him. 
.  .  .  Please  to  go  at  once,  and  let  us  wait  here." 


418  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Mr.  Parham-Carter 
came  back  quickly  into  the  room  and  shut  the 
door. 

"  Yes;  he's  at  the  factory,"  he  said.  "  Or  at  any 
rate  he's  not  at  home.  And  they  don't  expect  him 
back  till  late." 

"Well?" 

"  There's  something  up.  The  girl's  gone  too. 
(No;  she's  not  at  the  factory.)  And  I  think  there's 
going  to  be  trouble." 


CHAPTER  VI 

(i) 

'  I  MlE  electric  train  slowed  down  and  stopped  at 
the  Hammersmith  terminus,  and  there  was 
the  usual  rush  for  the  doors. 

"  Come  on,  Gertie,"  said  a  young  man,  "  here 
we  are." 

The  girl  remained  perfectly  still  with  her  face 
hidden. 

The  crowd  was  enormous  this  Christmas  Eve, 
and  for  the  most  part  laden  with  parcels ;  the  plat- 
forms surged  with  folk,  and  each  bookstall,  blazing 
with  lights  (for  it  was  after  seven  o'clock),  was  a 
center  of  a  kind  of  whirlpool.  There  was  sensa- 
tional news  in  the  evening  papers,  and  everyone 
was  anxious  to  get  at  the  full  details  of  which  the 
main  facts  were  tantalizingly  displayed  on  the  post- 
ers. Everyone  wanted  to  know  exactly  who  were 
the  people  concerned  and  how  it  had  all  happened. 
It  was  a  delightful  tragedy  for  the  Christmas  fes- 
tivities. 

419 


420  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Come  on,"  said  the  young  man  again. 
"  They're  nearly  all  out." 

"  I  can't,"  moaned  the  girl. 

Frank  took  her  by  the  arm  resolutely. 

"  Come !  "  he  said. 

Then  she  came,  and  the  two  passed  out  together 
into  the  mob  waiting  to  come  in. 

"  We  shall  have  to  walk,"  said  Frank.  "  I'm 
sorry;  but  I've  got  to  get  home  somehow." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  said  nothing. 

Gertie  presented  a  very  unusual  appearance  this 
evening.  Certainly  she  had  laid  out  the  two- 
pound-ten  to  advantage.  She  was  in  a  perfectly 
decent  dark  dress  with  a  red  stripe  in  it;  she  had  a 
large  hat  and  some  species  of  boa  round  her  neck; 
she  even  carried  a  cheap  umbrella  with  a  sham 
silver  band  and  a  small  hand-bag  with  one  pocket- 
handkerchief  inside  it.  And  to  her  own  mind, 
no  doubt,  she  was  a  perfect  picture  of  the  ideal 
penitent  —  very  respectable  and  even  prosperous 
looking,  and  yet  with  a  dignified  reserve.  She  was 
not  at  all  flaunting,  she  must  have  thought;  neither 
was  she,  externally,  anything  of  a  disgrace.  It 
would  be  evident  presently  to  her  mother  that  she 
had  returned  out  of  simple  goodness  of  heart  and 
not  at  all  because  her  recent  escapade  had  been  a 
failure.  She  would  still  be  able  to  talk  of  "  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  421 

Major  "  with  something  of  an  air,  and  to  make 
out  that  he  treated  her  always  like  a  lady.  (When 
1  went  to  interview  her  a  few  months  ago  I  found 
her  very  dignified,  very  self-conscious,  excessively 
refined  and  faintly  reminiscent  of  fallen  splendor; 
and  her  mother  told  me  privately  that  she  was  be- 
ginning to  be  restless  again  and  talked  of  going  on 
to  the  music-hall  stage.) 

But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  find  it  very  hard  to 
forgive,  and  that  is,  that  as  the  two  went  together 
under  the  flaming  white  lights  towards  Chiswick 
High  Street,  she  turned  to  Frank  a  little  nervously 
and  asked  him  if  he  would  mind  walking  just  be- 
hind her.  (Please  remember,  however,  in  exten- 
uation, that  Gertie's  new  pose  was  that  of  the 
Superior  Young  Lady.) 

"  I  don't  quite  like  to  be  seen  — "  murmured  this 
respectable  person. 

"  Oh,  certainly ! "  said  Frank,  without  an  in- 
stant's hesitation. 

They  had  met,  half  an  hour  before,  by  appoint- 
ment, at  the  entrance  to  the  underground  station 
at  Victoria.  Frank's  van-journeyings  would,  he 
calculated,  bring  him  there  about  half-past  six,  and, 
strictly  against  the  orders  of  his  superiors,  but  very 
ingeniously,  with  the  connivance  of  his  fellow- 
driver  of  the  van,  he  had  arranged  for  his  place  to 


422  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

be  taken  on  the  van  for  the  rest  of  the  evening 
by  a  man  known  to  his  fellow-driver  —  but  just 
now  out  of  work —  for  the  sum  of  one  shilling,  to 
be  paid  within  a  week.  He  was  quite  determined 
not  to  leave  Gertie  alone  again,  when  once  the  jour- 
ney to  Chiswick  had  actually  begun,  until  he  had 
seen  her  landed  in  her  own  home.  . 

The  place  of  meeting,  too,  had  suited  Gertie  very 
well.  She  had  left  Turner  Road  abruptly,  with- 
out a  word  to  anyone,  the  instant  that  the  Major's 
military-looking  back  had  been  seen  by  her  to  pass 
within  the  swing-doors  of  the  "  Queen's  Arms  " 
for  his  usual  morning  refreshment.  Then  she  had 
occupied  herself  chiefly  by  collecting  her  various 
things  at  their  respective  shops,  purchased  by 
Frank's  two-pound-ten,  and  putting  them  on.  She 
had  had  a  clear  threepence  to  spare  beyond  the 
few  shillings  she  had  determined  to  put  by  out  of 
the  total,  and  had  expended  it  by  a  visit  to  the 
cinematograph  show  in  Victoria  Street.  There  had 
been  a  very  touching  series  of  pictures  of  the  "  Old 
Home  in  the  Country,"  and  the  milking  of  the 
cows,  with  a  general  atmosphere  of  roses  and 
church-bells,  and  Gertie  had  dissolved  into  tears 
more  than  once,  and  had  cried  noiselessly  into  her 
new  pocket-handkerchief  drawn  from  her  new 
hand-bag.  But  she  had  met  Frank  quite  punctu- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  423 

ally,  for,  indeed,  she  had  burned  her  boats  now  en- 
tirely and  there  was  nothing  else  left  for  her  to  do. 

At  the  entrance  to  Chiswick  High  Street  another 
brilliant  thought  struck  her.  She  paused  for  Frank 
to  come  up. 

"  Frankie,"  she  said,  "  you  won't  say  anything 
about  the  two-pound-ten,  will  you?  I  shouldn't 
like  them  to  think — " 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Frank  gravely,  and  after 
a  moment,  noticing  that  she  glanced  at  him  again 
uneasily,  understood,  and  fell  obediently  to  the  rear 
once  more. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  on  her  steps 
began  to  go  slower.  Frank  watched  her  very  care- 
fully. He  was  not  absolutely  sure  of  her  even  now. 
Then  she  crossed  over  the  street  between  two  trams, 
and  Frank  dodged  after  her.  Then  she  turned  as 
if  to  walk  back  to  Hammersmith.  In  an  instant 
Frank  was  at  her  side. 

"  You're  going  the  wrong  way,"  he  said. 

She  stopped  irresolutely,  and  had  to  make  way 
for  two  or  three  hurrying  people  to  pass. 

"  Oh,  Frankie !  I  can't !  "  she  wailed  softly. 

"  Come !  "  said  Frank,  and  took  her  by  the  arm 
once  more. 


424  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Five  minutes  later  they  stood  together  half-way 
down  a  certain  long  lane  that  turns  out  of  Chiswick 
High  Street  to  the  left,  and  there,  for  the  first  time, 
she  seems  to  have  been  genuinely  frightened.  The 
street  was  quite  empty;  the  entire  walking  popula- 
tion was  parading  up  and  down  the  brightly-lit 
thoroughfare  a  hundred  yards  behind  them,  or 
feverishly  engaged  in  various  kinds  of  provision- 
shops.  The  lamps  were  sparse  in  this  lane,  and  all 
was  comparatively  quiet. 

"  Oh,  Frankie !  "  she  moaned  again.  "  I  can't ! 
I 'can't!  ...  I  daren't!" 

She  leaned  back  against  the  sill  of  a  window. 

Yet,  even  then,  I  believe  she  was  rather  enjoying 
herself.  It  was  all  so  extremely  like  the  sort  of 
plays  over  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  shed 
tears.  The  Prodigal's  Return !  And  on  Christmas 
Eve!  It  only  required  a  little  snow  to  be  falling 
and  a  crying  infant  at  her  breast  .  .  . 

I  wonder  what  Frank  made  of  it.  He  must  have 
known  Gertie  thoroughly  well  by  now,  and  cer- 
tainly there  is  not  one  sensible  man  in  a  thousand 
whose  gorge  would  not  have  risen  at  the  situation. 
Yet  I  doubt  whether  Frank  paid  it  much  attention. 

"Where's  the  house?"  he  said. 

He  glanced  up  at  the  number  of  the'  door  by 
which  he  stood. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  425 

"  It  must  be  a  dozen  doors  further  on,"  he  said. 

"  It's  the  last  house  in  the  row,"  murmured  Ger- 
tie, in  a  weak  voice.  "  Is  father  looking  out?  Go 
and  see." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Frank,  "  do  not  be  silly. 
Do  remember  your  mother's  letter." 

Then  she  suddenly  turned  on  him,  and  if  ever  she 
was  genuine  she  was  in  that  moment. 

"  Frankie,"  she  whispered,  "  why  not  take  me 
away  yourself?  Oh!  take  me  away!  take  me 
away!  " 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  in 
that  instant  he  caught  again  that  glimpse  as  of 
Jenny  herself. 

"  Take  me  away  —  I'll  live  with  you  just  as  you 
like !  "  She  took  him  by  his  poor  old  jacket-lapel. 
"  You  can  easily  make  enough,  and  I  don't  ask  — " 

Then  he  detached  her  ringers  and  took  her  gently 
by  the  arm. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said.  "No;  not  another 
word." 

Together  in  silence  they  went  the  few  steps  that 
separated  them  from  the  house.  There  was  a  little 
garden  in  front,  its  borders  set  alternately  with  sea- 
shells  and  flints.  At  the  gate  she  hesitated  once 
more,  but  he  unlatched  the  gate  and  pushed  her 
gently  through. 

28 


426  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  Oh!  my  gloves!  "  whispered  Gertie,  in  a  sharp 
tone  of  consternation.  "  I  left  them  in  the  shop 
next  the  A.B.C.  in  Wilton  Road." 

Frank  nodded.  Then,  still  urging  her,  he 
brought  her  up  to  the  door  and  tapped  upon  it. 

There  were  footsteps  inside. 

"  God  bless  you,  Gertie.  Be  a  good  girl.  I'll 
wait  in  the  road  for  ten  minutes,  so  that  you  can 
call  me  if  you  want  to." 

Then  he  was  gone  as  the  door  opened. 

(n) 

The  next  public  appearance  of  Frank  that  I  have 
been  able  to  trace,  was  in  Westminster  Cathedral. 
Now  it  costs  an  extra  penny  at  least,  I  think,  to 
break  one's  journey  from  Hammersmith  to  Broad 
Street,  and  I  imagine  that  Frank  would  not  have 
done  this  after  what  he  had  said  to  Gertie  about 
the  difficulty  connected  with  taking  an  omnibus, 
except  for  some  definite  reason,  so  it  is  only  possi- 
ble to  conclude  that  he  broke  his  journey  at  Vic- 
toria in  an  attempt  to  get  at  those  gloves. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  that  Gertie  should 
have  spoken  of  her  gloves  at  such  a  moment,  but 
it  really  happened.  She  told  me  so  herself.  And, 
personally,  on  thinking  over  it,  it  seems  to  me  tol- 
erably in  line  (though  perhaps  the  line  is  rather  un- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  427 

usually  prolonged)  with  all  that  I  have  been  able  to 
gather  about  her  whole  character.  The  fact  is  that 
gloves,  just  then,  were  to  her  really  important.  She 
was  about  to  appear  on  the  stage  of  family  life,  and 
she  had  formed  a  perfectly  consistent  conception 
of  her  part.  Gloves  were  an  integral  part  of  her 
costume  —  they  were  the  final  proof  of  a  sort  of 
opulence  and  refinement;  therefore,  though  she 
could  not  get  them  just  then,  it  was  perfectly  nat- 
ural and  proper  of  her  to  mention  them.  It  must 
not  be  thought  that  Gertie  was  insincere:  she  was 
not ;  she  was  dramatic.  And  it  is  a  fact  that  within 
five  minutes  of  her  arrival  she  was  down  on  her 
knees  by  her  mother,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her 
mother's  lap,  crying  her  heart  out.  By  the  time 
she  remembered  Frank  and  ran  out  into  the  street, 
he  had  been  gone  more  than  twenty  minutes. 

One  of  the  priests  attached  to  Westminster  Ca- 
thedral happened  to  have  a  pause  about  half -past 
nine  o'clock  in  his  hearing  of  confessions.  He  had 
been  in  his  box  without  a  break  from  six  o'clock, 
and  he  was  extremely  tired  and  stiff  about  the 
knees.  He  had  said  the  whole  of  his  office  dur- 
ing intervals,  and  he  thought  he  would  take  a  little 
walk  up  and  down  the  south  aisle  to  stretch  his 
legs. 

So  he  unlatched  the  little  door  of  his  confes- 


428  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

sional,  leaving  the  light  burning  in  case  someone 
else  turned  up;  he  slipped  off  his  stole  and  came 
outside. 

The  whole  aisle,  it  seemed,  was  empty,  though 
there  was  still  a  sprinkling  of  folks  in  the  north 
aisle,  right  across  the  great  space  of  the  nave;  and 
he  went  down  the  whole  length,  down  to  the  west 
end  to  have  a  general  look  up  the  Cathedral. 

He  stood  looking  for  three  or  four  minutes. 

Overhead  hung  the  huge  span  of  brickwork,  lost 
in  darkness,  incredibly  vast  and  mysterious,  with 
here  and  there  emerging  into  faint  light  a  slice  of 
a  dome  or  the  slope  of  some  architrave-like  dogmas 
from  impenetrable  mystery.  Before  him  lay  the 
immense  nave,  thronged  now  with  close-packed 
chairs  in  readiness  for  the  midnight  Mass,  and  they 
seemed  to  him  as  he  looked  with  tired  eyes,  almost 
like  the  bent  shoulders  of  an  enormous  crowd 
bowed  in  dead  silence  of  adoration.  But  there  was 
nothing  yet  to  adore,  except  up  there  to  the  left, 
where  a  very  pale  glimmer  shone  on  polished  mar- 
ble among  the  shadows  before  the  chapel  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament.  There  was  one  other  excep- 
tion; for  overhead,  against  the  half-lighted  apse, 
where  a  belated  sacristan  still  moved  about,  him- 
self a  shadow,  busy  with  the  last  preparations  of 
the  High  Altar  —  there  burgeoned  out  the  ominous 
silhouette  of  the  vast  hanging  cross,  but  so  dark 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  429 

that  the  tortured  Christ  upon  it  was  invisible. 
.  .  .  Yet  surely  that  was  right  on  this  night, 
for  who,  of  all  those  who  were  to  adore  presently 
the  Child  of  Joy,  gave  a  thought  to  the  Man  of 
Sorrows?  His  Time  was  yet  three  months  away. 


As  the  priest  stood  there,  looking  and  imagining, 
with  that  strange  clarity  of  mind  and  intuition  that 
a  few  hours  in  the  confessional  gives  to  even  the 
dullest  brain,  he  noticed  the  figure  of  a  man  detach 
itself  from  one  of  the  lighted  confessionals  on  the 
left  and  come  down  towards  him,  walking  quickly 
and  lightly.  To  his  surprise,  this  young  man,  in- 
stead of  going  out  at  the  northwest  door,  wheeled 
and  came  towards  him. 

He  noticed  him  particularly,  and  remembered  his 
dress  afterwards:  it  was  a  very  shabby  dark  blue 
suit,  splashed  with  mud  from  the  Christmas  streets, 
very  bulgy  about  the  knees ;  the  coat  was  buttoned 
up  tightly  round  a  muffler  that  had  probably  once 
been  white,  and  his  big  boots  made  a  considerable 
noise  as  he  came. 

The  priest  had  a  sudden  impulse  as  the  young 
man  crossed  him. 

"  A  merry  Christmas,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  stopped  a  moment  and  smiled 
all  over  his  face,  and  the  priest  noticed  the  ex- 


430  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Iraordinary  serenity  and  pleasantness  of  the  face 
—  and  that,  though  it  was  the  face  of  a  Poor  Man, 
with  sunken  cheeks  and  lines  at  the  corners  of  the 
mouth.  f 

"  Thank  you,  Father,"  he  said.  "  The  same  to 
you." 

Then  he  went  on,  his  boots  as  noisy  as  ever,  and 
turned  up  the  south  aisle.  And  presently  the  sound 
of  his  boots  ceased. 

The  priest  still  stood  a  moment  or  two,  looking 
and  thinking,  and  it  struck  him  with  something  of 
pleasure  that  the  young  man,  though  obviously  of 
the  most  completely  submerged  tenth,  had  not  even 
hesitated  or  paused,  still  less  said  one  word,  with 
the  hope  of  a  little  something  for  Christmas'  sake. 
Surely  he  had  spoken,  too>  with  the  voice  of  an  edu- 
cated man. 

He  became  suddenly  interested  —  he  scarcely 
knew  why,  and  the  impression  made  just  by  that 
single  glimpse  of  a  personality  deepened  every  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  What  in  the  world  was  that  young 
man  doing  here?  .  .  .  What  was  his  business 
up  in  that  empty  south  aisle?  Who  was  he? 
What  was  it  all  about? 

He  thought  presently  that  he  would  go  up  and 
see;  it  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  clergy-house, 
too.  But  when  he  reached  the  corner  of  the  aisle 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  431 

and  could  see  up  it,  there  seemed  to  be  no  one 
there. 

He  began  to  walk  up,  wondering  more  than  ever, 
and  then  on  a  sudden  he  saw  a  figure  kneeling  on 
the  lower  step  of  the  chapel  on  the  right,  railed  off 
and  curtained  now,  where  the  Crib  was  ready  to 
be  disclosed  two  hours  later. 

It  all  seemed  very  odd.  He  could  not  under- 
stand why  anyone  should  wish  to  pray  before  an 
impenetrable  curtain.  As  he  came  nearer  he  saw 
it  was  his  friend  all  right.  Those  boots  were  un- 
mistakable. The  young  man  was  kneeling  on  the 
step,  quite  upright  and  motionless,  his  cap  held  in 
his  hands,  facing  towards  the  curtain  behind  which, 
no  doubt,  there  stood  the  rock-roofed  stable,  with 
the  Three  Personages  —  an  old  man,  a  maid  and 
a  new-born  Child.  But  their  time,  too,  was  not 
yet.  It  was  two  hours  away. 

Priests  do  not  usually  stare  in  the  face  of  people 
who  are  saying  their  prayers  —  they  are  quite  ac- 
customed to  that  phenomenon;  but  this  priest  (he 
tells  me)  simply  could  not  resist  it.  And  as  he 
passed  on  his  noiseless  shoes,  noticing  that  the  light 
from  his  own  confessional  shone  full  upon  the  man, 
he  turned  and  looked  straight  at  his  face. 

Now  I  do  not  understand  what  it  was  that  he 
saw;  he  does  not  understand  it  himself;  but  it  seems 
that  there  was  something  that  impressed  him  more 


432  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

than  anything  else  that  he  had  ever  seen  before  or 
since  in  the  whole  world. 

The  young  man's  eyes  were  open  and  his  lips 
were  closed.  Not  one  muscle  of  his  face  moved. 
So  much  for  the  physical  facts.  But  it  was  a  case 
where  the  physical  facts  are  supremely  unimpor- 
tant. ...  At  any  rate,  the  priest  could  only 
recall  them  with  an  effort.  The  point  was  that 
there  was  something  supra-physical  there — (per- 
sonally I  should  call  it  supernatural)  — that  stabbed 
the  watcher's  heart  clean  through  with  one  over- 
whelming pang.  ...  (I  think  that's  enough.) 

When  the  priest  reached  the  Lady  chapel  he  sat 
down,  still  trembling  a  little,  and  threw  all  his 
attention  into  his  ears,  determined  to  hear  the  first 
movement  that  the  kneeling  figure  made  behind  him. 
So  he  sat  minute  after  minute.  The  Cathedral  was 
full  of  echoes  —  murmurous  rebounds  of  the  noises 
of  the  streets,  drawn  out  and  mellowed  into  long, 
soft,  rolling  tones,  against  which,  as  against  a  foil, 
there  stood  out  detached,  now  and  then,  the  sudden 
footsteps  of  someone  leaving  or  entering  a  con- 
fessional, the  short  scream  of  a  slipping  chair  — 
once  the  sudden  noise  of  a  confessional-door  being 
opened  and  the  click  of  the  handle  which  turned 
out  the  electric  light.  And  it  was  full  of  shadows, 
too;  a  monstrous  outline  crossed  and  recrossed  the 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  433 

apse  behind  the  High  Altar,  as  the  sacristan  moved 
about ;  once  a  hand,  as  of  a  giant,  remained  poised 
for  an  instant  somewhere  on  the  wall  beside  the 
throne.  It  seemed  to  the  priest,  tired  and  clear- 
brained  as  he  was,  as  if  he  sat  in  some  place  of  ex- 
pectation —  some  great  cavern  where  mysteries 
moved  and  passed  in  preparation  for  a  climax.  All 
was  hushed  and  confused,  yet  alive;  and  the  dark 
waves  would  break  presently  in  the  glory  of  the 
midnight  Mass. 

He  scarcely  knew  what  held  him  there,  nor  what 
it  was  for  which  he  waited.  He  thought  of  the 
lighted  common-room  at  the  end  of  the  long  corri- 
dor beyond  the  sacristy.  He  wondered  who  was 
there ;  perhaps  one  or  two  were  playing  billiards  and 
smoking;  they  had  had  a  hard  day  of  it  and  would 
scarcely  get  to  bed  before  three.  And  yet,  here  he 
sat,  tired  and  over-strained,  yet  waiting  —  waiting 
for  a  disreputable-looking  young  man  in  a  dirty 
suit  and  muffler  and  big  boots,  to  give  over  praying 
before  a  curtain  in  an  empty  aisle. 

A  figure  presently  came  softly  round  the  corner 
behind  him.  It  was  the  priest  whom  he  had  heard 
leaving  his  confessional  just  now. 

"  Haven't  you  done  yet  ?  "  whispered  the  new- 
comer, pausing  behind  his  chair. 

"  Coming  in  a  minute  or  two,"  he  said. 

The  figure  passed  on;  presently  a  door  banged 


434  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

like  muffled  thunder  somewhere  beyond  the  sacristy, 
and  simultaneously  he  heard  a  pair  of  boots  going 
down  the  aisle  behind. 

He  got  up  instantly,  and  with  long,  silent  steps 
made  his  way  down  the  aisle  also.  The  figure 
wheeled  the  corner  and  disappeared;  he  himself 
ran  on  tip-toe  and  was  in  time  to  see  him  turning 
away  from  the  holy-water  basin  by  the  door.  But 
he  came  so  quickly  after  him  that  the  door  was  still 
vibrating  as  he  put  his  hand  upon  it.  He  came  out 
more  cautiously  through  the  little  entrance,  and 
stood  on  the  steps  in  time  to  see  the  young  man 
moving  off,  not  five  yards  away,  in  the  direction  of 
Victoria  Street.  But  here  something  stopped  him. 

Coming  straight  up  the  pavement  outside  the  Art 
and  Book  Company  depot  was  a  newsboy  at  the 
trot,  yelling  something  as  he  came,  with  a  poster 
flapping  from  one  arm  and  a  bundle  of  papers 
under  the  other.  The  priest  could  not  catch  what 
he  said,  but  he  saw  the  young  man  suddenly  stop 
and  then  turn  off  sharply  towards  the  boy,  and  he 
saw  him,  after  fumbling  in  his  pocket,  produce  a 
halfpenny  and  a  paper  pass  into  his  hands. 

There  then  he  stood,  motionless  on  the  pavement, 
the  sheet  spread  before  him  flapping  a  little  in  the 
gusty  night  wind. 

"  Paper,  sir ! "  yelled  the  boy,  pausing  in  the 
road.  "  'Orrible  — " 


X(A'E  OTHER  GODS  435 

The  priest  nodded ;  but  he  was  not  thinking  much 
about  the  paper,  and  produced  his  halfpenny.  The 
paper  was  put  into  his  hand,  but  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  it.  lie  was  still  watching  the  motionless 
figure  on  the  pavement.  About  three  minutes 
passed.  Then  the  young  man  suddenly  and  dex- 
terously folded  the  paper,  folded  it  again  and 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  set  off  walking 
and  a  .moment  later  had  vanished  round  the  corner 
into  Victoria  Street. 

The  priest  thought  no  more  of  the  paper  as  he 
\\CMU  back  through  the  Cathedral,  wondering  again 
over  what  he  had  seen.  .  .  . 

But  the  common-room  was  empty  when  he  got 
to  it,  and  presently  he  spread  the  paper  before  him 
on  the  table  and  leaned  over  it  to  see  what  the  ex- 
citement was  about.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to 
what  the  news  was  —  there  were  headlines  occupy- 
ing nearly  a  third  of  a  column;  but  it  appeared  to 
him  unimportant  as  general  news:  he  had  never 
heard  of  the  people  before.  It  seemed  that  a 
wealthy  peer  who  lived  in  the  North  of  England, 
who  had  only  recently  been  married  for  the  second 
time,  had  been  killed  in  a  motor  smash  together 
with  his  eldest  son.  The  chauffeur  had  escaped 
with  a  fractured  thigh.  The  peer's  name  was  Lord 
Talgarth. 


.CHAPTER  VII 

(i) 

the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth  a  curious 
little  incident  happened  —  I  dug  the  facts  out 
of  the  police  news  —  in  a  small  public-house  on 
the  outskirts  of  South  London.  Obviously  it  is  no 
more  than  the  sheerest  coincidence.  Four  men  were 
drinking  a  friendly  glass  of  beer  together  on  their 
way  back  to  work  from  breakfast.  Their  ecclesias- 
tical zeal  seems  to  have  been  peculiarly  strong, 
for  they  distinctly  stated  that  they  were  celebrating 
Christmas  on  that  date,  and  I  deduce  from  that 
statement  that  beer-drinking  was  comparatively  in- 
frequent with  them. 

However,  as  they  were  about  to  part,  there  en- 
tered to  them  a  fifth,  travel-stained  and  tired,  who 
sat  down  and  demanded  some  stronger  form  of 
stimulant.  The  new-comer  was  known  to  these 
four,  for  his  name  was  given,  and  his  domicile  was 
mentioned  as  Hackney  Wick.  He  was  a  small 
man,  very  active  and  very  silent  and  rather  pale; 
and  he  seems  to  have  had  something  of  a  mys- 
terious reputation  even  among  his  friends  and  to  be 
considered  a  dangerous  man  to  cross. 
436 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  437 

He  made  no  mystery,  however,  as  to  where  he 
had  come  from,  nor  whither  he  was  going.  He 
had  come  from  Kent,  he  said,  and  humorously 
added  that  he  had  been  hop-picking,  and  was  going 
to  join  his  wife  and  the  family  circle  for  the  fes- 
tival of  Christmas.  He  remarked  that  his  wife 
had  written  to  him  to  say  she  had  lodgers. 

The  four  men  naturally  stayed  a  little  to  hear  all 
this  news  and  to  celebrate  Christmas  once  more, 
but  they  presently  were  forced  to  tear  themselves 
away.  It  was  as  the  first  man  was  leaving  (his 
foreman  appears  to  have  been  of  a  tyrannical  dis- 
position) that  the  little  incident  happened. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  Bill  "  (three  out  of  the  five 
companions  seemed  to  have  been  usually  called 
"  Bill "),  "  Bill,  your  boots  are  in  a  mess." 

The  Bill  in  question  made  caustic  remarks.  He 
observed  that  it  would  be  remarkable  if  they  were 
not  in  such  weather.  But  the  other  persisted  that 
this  was  not  mud,  and  a  general  inspection  was 
made.  This  resulted  in  the  opinion  of  the  majority 
being  formed  that  Bill  had  trodden  in  some  blood. 
Bill  himself  was  one  of  the  majority,  though  he 
attempted  in  vain  to  think  of  any  explanation. 
Two  men,  however,  declared  that  in  their  opinion 
it  was  only  red  earth.  (A  certain  obscurity  ap- 
pears in  the  evidence  at  this  point,  owing  to  the 
common  use  of  a  certain  expletive  in  the  mouth 


438  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

of  the  British  working-man.)  There  was  a  hot 
discussion  on  the  subject,  and  the  Bill  whose  boots 
were  under  argument  seems  to  have  been  the  only 
man  to  keep  his  head.  He  argued  very  sensibly 
that  if  the  stains  were  those  of  blood,  then  he 
must  have  stepped  in  some  —  perhaps  in  the  gutter 
of  a  slaughter-house;  and  if  it  was  not  blood,  then 
it  must  be  something  else  he  had  trodden  in.  It 
was  urged  upon  him  that  it  was  best  washed  off, 
and  he  seems  finally  to  have  taken  the  advice, 
though  without  enthusiasm. 

Then  the  four  men  departed. 

The  landlady's  evidence  was  to  the  same  effect. 
She  states  that  the  new-comer,  with  whose  name 
she  had  been  previously  unacquainted,  though  she 
knew  his  face,  had  remained  very  tranquilly  for 
an  hour  or  so  and  had  breakfasted  off  bacon  and 
eggs.  He  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money,  she 
said.  He  had  finally  set  off,  limping  a  little,  in  a 
northward  direction. 

Now  this  incident  is  a  very  small  one.  I  only 
mention  it  because,  in  reading  the  evidence  later, 
I  found  myself  reminded  of  a  parallel  incident,  re- 
corded in  a  famous  historical  trial,  in  which  some- 
thing resembling  blood  was  seen  on  the  hand  of  the 
judge.  His  name  was  Ayloff,  and  his  date  the  six- 
teenth century. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  439 

(n) 

Mrs.  Partington  had  a  surprise  —  not  wholly 
agreeable  —  on  that  Christmas  Eve.  For  at  half- 
past  three,  just  as  the  London  evening  was  be- 
ginning to  close  in,  her  husband  walked  into  the 
kitchen. 

She  had  seen  nothing  of  him  for  six  weeks,  and 
had  managed  to  get  on  fairly  well  without  him. 
I  am  not  even  now  certain  whether  or  no  she  knows 
what  her  husband's  occupation  is  during  these  ab- 
sences of  his  —  I  think  it  quite  possible  that,  hon- 
estly, she  does  not  —  and  I  have  no  idea  myself. 
It  seemed,  however,  this  time,  that  he  had  pros- 
pered. He  was  in  quite  a  good  temper,  he  was 
tolerably  well  dressed,  and  within  ten  minutes  of 
his  arrival  he  had  produced  a  handful  of  shillings. 
Five  of  these  he  handed  over  to  her  at  once  for 
Christmas  necessaries,  and  ten  more  he  entrusted 
to  Maggie  with  explicit  directions  as  to  their  ex- 
penditure. 

While  he  took  off  his  boots,  his  wife  gave  him 
the  news  —  first,  as  to  the  arrival  of  the  Major's 
little  party,  and  next  as  to  its  unhappy  dispersion 
on  that  very  day. 

"  He  will  'ave  it  as  the  young  -man's  gone  off 
with  the  young  woman,"  she  observed. 

Mr.  Partington  made  a  commentatory  sound. 


440  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  An'  'e's  'arf  mad,"  she  added.  "  'E  means 
mischief  if  'e  can  manage  it." 

Mr.  Partington  observed,  in  his  own  particular 
kind  of  vocabulary,  that  the  Major's  intentions 
were  absurd,  since  the  young  man  would  scarcely 
be  such  a  peculiarly  qualified  kind  of  fool  as  to 
return.  And  Mrs.  Partington  agreed  with  him. 
(In  fact,  this  had  been  her  one  comfort  all  day. 
For  it  seemed  to  her,  with  her  frank  and  natural 
ideas,  that,  on  the  whole,  Frank  and  Gertie  had 
done  the  proper  thing.  She  was  pleased,  too,  to 
think  that  she  had  been  right  in  her  surmises  as  to 
Gertie's  attitude  to  Frank.  For,  of  course,  she 
never  doubted  for  one  single  instant  that  the  two 
had  eloped  together  in  the  ordinary  way,  though 
probably  without  any  intentions  of  matrimony.) 

Mr.  Partington  presently  inquired  as  to  where 
the  Major  was,  and  was  informed  that  he  was,  of 
course,  at  the  "  Queen's  Arms."  He  had  been 
there,  in  fact,  continuously  —  except  for  sudden 
excursions  home,  to  demand  whether  anything  had 
been  heard  of  the  fugitives  —  since  about  half-past 
eleven  that  morning.  It  was  a  situation  that  needed 
comfort. 

.Mrs.  Partington  added  a  few  comments  on  the 
whole  situation,  and  presently  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  went  out  to  supplement  her  Christmas  prepara- 
tions with  the  extra  five  shillings,  leaving  her  hus- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  441 

band  to  doze  in  the  Windsor  chair,  with  his  pipe 
depending  from  his  mouth.  He  had  walked  up 
from  Kent  that  morning,  he  said. 

She  returned  in  time  to  get  tea  ready,  bringing 
with  her  various  "  relishes,"  and  found  that  the 
situation  had  developed  slightly  since  her  departure. 
The  Major  had  made  another  of  his  infuriated  re- 
turns, and  had  expanded  at  length  to  his  old  friend 
Mr.  Partington,  recounting  the  extraordinary  kind- 
ness he  had  always  shown  to  Frank  and  the  con- 
fidence he  had  reposed  in  him.  He  had  picked  him 
up,  it  seemed,  when  the  young  man  had  been  prac- 
tically starving,  and  had  been  father  and  comrade 
to  him  ever  since.  And  to  be  repaid  in  this  way! 
He  had  succeeded  also  by  his  eloquence,  Mrs.  Part- 
ington perceived,  in  winning  her  husband's  sym- 
pathies, and  was  now  gone  off  again,  ostensibly 
to  scour  the  neighborhood  once  more,  but,  more 
probably,  to  attempt  to  drown  his  grieved  and 
wounded  feelings. 

Mrs.  Partington  set  her  thin  lips  and  said  noth- 
ing. She  noticed  also,  as  she  spread  the  table,  a 
number  of  bottles  set  upon  the  floor,  two  of  them 
with  yellow  labels  —  the  result  of  Maggie's  errand 
—  and  prepared  herself  to  face  a  somewhat  riotous 
evening.  But  Christmas,  she  reflected  for  her  con- 
solation, comes  but  once  a  year. 

29 


442  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  that  the  two  men  and 
the  one  woman  sat  down  to  supper  upstairs.  The 
children  had  been  put  to  bed  in  the  kitchen  as 
usual,  after  Jimmie  had  informed  his  mother  that 
the  clergyman  had  been  round  no  less  than  three 
times  since  four  o'clock  to  inquire  after  the, van- 
ished lodger.  He  was  a  little  tearful  at  being  put 
to  bed  at  such  an  unusually  early  hour,  as  Mr.  Par- 
ham-Carter,  it  appeared,  had  promised  him  no  less 
than  sixpence  if  he  would  come  round  to  the  clergy- 
house  within  five  minutes  after  the  lodger's  return, 
and  it  was  obviously  impossible  to  traverse  the 
streets  in  a  single  flannel  shirt. 

His  mother  dismissed  it  all  as  nonsense.  She 
told  him  that  Frankie  was  not  coming  back  at  all 
—  that  he  wasn't  a  good  young  man,  and  had  run 
away  without  paying  mother  her  rent.  This  made 
the  situation  worse  than  ever,  as  Jimmie  protested 
violently  against  this  shattering  of  his  ideal,  and 
his  mother  had  to  assume  a  good  deal  of  stern- 
ness to  cover  up  her  own  tenderness  of  feeling. 
But  she,  too  —  though  she  considered  the  flight  of 
the  two  perfectly  usual  —  was  conscious  of  a  very 
slight  sense  of  disappointment  herself  that  it 
should  have  been  this  particular  young  man  who 
had  done  it. 

Then  she  went  upstairs  again  to  supper. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  443 

(m) 

The  famous  archway  that  gives  entrance  to  the 
district  of  Hackney  Wick  seems,  especially  on  a 
rainy  night,  directly  designed  by  the  Great  Eastern 
Railway  as  a  vantage  ground  for  observant  loafers 
with  a  desire  to  know  every  soul  that  enters  or 
leaves  Hackney  Wick.  It  is,  of  course,  possible 
to  enter  Hackney  Wick  by  other  ways  —  it  may 
be  approached  by  the  marshes,  and  there  is,  I  think, 
another  way  round  about  half  a  mile  to  the  east, 
under  the  railway.  But  those  ways  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  people  coming  from  London 
proper.  You  arrive  at  Victoria  Park  Station;  you 
turn  immediately  to  the  right  and  follow  the  pave- 
ment down,  with  the  park  on  your  left,  until  you 
come  to  the  archway  where  the  road  unites  with 
that  coming  from  Homerton.  One  is  absolutely 
safe,  therefore,  assuming  that  one  has  not  to  deal 
with  watchful  criminals,  in  standing  under  the  arch 
with  the  certitude  that  sooner  or  later,  if  you  wait 
long  enough,  the  man  whom  you  expect  to  enter 
Hackney  Wick  will  pass  within  ten  yards  of  you. 

Mr.  Parham-Carter,  of  course,  knew  this  per- 
fectly well,  and  had,  finally,  communicated  the  fact 
to  the  other  two  quite  early  in  the  afternoon.  An 
elaborate  system  of  watches,  therefore,  had  been 
arranged,  by  which  one  of  the  three  had  been  on 


444  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

guard  continuously  since  three  o'clock.  It  was  Jack 
who  had  had  the  privilege  (if  he  had  but  known 
it)  of  observing  Mr.  Partington  himself  returning 
home  to  his  family  for  Christmas,  and  it  was  Dick, 
who  came  on  guard  about  five,  who  had  seen  the 
Major  —  or,  rather,  what  was  to  him  merely  a 
shabby  and  excited  man  —  leave  and  then  return 
to  the  "  Queen's  Arms  "  during  his  hour's  watch. 

After  the  amazing  and  shocking  news,  however, 
of  the  accident  to  Lord  Talgarth  and  Archie,  the 
precautions  had  been  doubled.  It  was  the  clergy- 
man who  had  first  bought  an  evening  paper  soon 
after  five  o'clock,  and  within  five  minutes  the  other 
two  knew  it  also. 

It  is  of  no  good  to  try  to  describe  the  effect  it 
had  on  their  minds,  beyond  saying  that  it  made  all 
three  of  them  absolutely  resolute  that  Frank  should 
by  no  possible  means  escape  them.  The  full  dra- 
matic situation  of  it  all  they  scarcely  appreciated, 
though  it  soaked  more  and  more  into  them  grad- 
ually as  they  waited  —  two  of  them  in  the  Men's 
Club  just  round  the  corner,  and  the  third,  shivering 
and  stamping,  under  the  arch.  (An  unemployed 
man,  known  to  the  clergyman,  had  been  set  as  an 
additional  sentry  on  the  steps  of  the  Men's  Club, 
whose  duty  it  would  be,  the  moment  the  signal  was 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  445 

given  from  the  arch  that  Frank  was  coming,  to  call 
the  other  two  instantly  from  inside.  Further,  the 
clergyman  —  as  has  been  related  —  had  been  round 
three  times  since  four  o'clock  to  Turner  Road,  and 
had  taken  Jimmie  into  his  pay.) 

The  situation  was  really  rather  startling,  even  to 
the  imperturbable  Dick.  This  pleasant  young  man, 
to  whom  he  had  begun  to  feel  very  strangely  tender 
during  the  last  month  or  two,  now  tramping  Lon- 
don streets  (or  driving  a  van),  in  his  miserable  old 
clothes  described  to  him  by  the  clergyman,  or  work- 
ing at  the  jam  factory,  was  actually  no  one  else  at 
this  moment  but  the  new  Lord  Talgarth  —  with  all 
that  that  implied.  Merefield  was  his ;  the  big  house 
in  Berkeley  Square  was  his;  the  moor  in  Scotland. 
.  .  .  It  was  an  entire  reversal  of  the  whole 
thing :  it  was  as  a  change  of  trumps  in  whist :  every- 
thing had  altered  its  value.  .  .  . 

Well,  he  had  plenty  of  time,  both  before  he  came 
off  guard  at  seven  and  after  he  had  joined  the 
clergyman  in  the  Men's  Club,  to  sort  out  the  facts 
and  their  consequences. 

About  half-past  ten  the  three  held  a  consultation 
under  the  archway,  while  trains  rumbled  overhead. 
They  attracted  very  little  attention  here :  the  arch- 
way is  dark  and  wide;  they  were  muffled  to  the  eyes; 


446  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

and  there  usually  is  a  fringe  of  people  standing 
under  shelter  here  on  rainy  evenings.  They  leaned 
back  against  the  wall  and  talked. 

They  had  taken  further  steps  since  they  had  last 
met.  Mr.  Parham-Carter  had  been  round  to  the 
jam  factory,  and  had  returned  with  the  news  that 
the  van  had  come  back  under  the  charge  of  only 
one  of  the  drivers,  and  that  the  other  one,  who  was 
called  Gregory  (whom  Mr.  Parham-Carter  was  in- 
quiring after),  would  certainly  be  dismissed  in  con- 
sequence. He  had  taken  the  address  of  the  driver, 
who  was  now  off  duty  —  somewhere  in  Homerton 

—  with  the  intention  of  going  to  see  him  next  morn- 
ing if  Frank  had  not  appeared. 

There  were  two  points  they  were  discussing  now. 

First,  should  the  police  be  informed?  Secondly, 
was  it  probable  that  Frank  would  have  heard  the 
news,  and,  if  so,  was  it  conceivable  that  he  had 
gone  straight  off  somewhere  in  consequence  —  to 
his  lawyers,  or  even  to  Merefield  itself? 

Dick  remembered  the  name  of  the  firm  quite  well 

—  at  least,  he  thought  so.     Should  he  send  a  wire 
to  inquire  ? 

But  then,  in  that  case,  Jack  shrewdly  pointed  out, 
everything  was  as  it  should  be.  And  this  reflection 
caused  the  three  considerable  comfort. 

For  all  that,  there  were  one  or  two  "  ifs."     Was 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  447 

it  likely  that  Frank  should  have  heard  the  news? 
He  was  notoriously  hard  up,  and  the  name  Talgarth 
had  not  appeared,  so  far,  on  any  of  the  posters. 
Yet  he  might  easily  have  been  given  a  paper,  or 
picked  one  up  ...  and  then.  .  .  . 

So  the  discussion  went  on,  and  there  was  not 
much  to  be  got  out  of  it.  The  final  decision  come 
to  was  this :  That  guard  should  be  kept,  as  before, 
until  twelve  o'clock  midnight ;  that  at  that  hour  the 
three  should  leave  the  archway  and,  in  company, 
visit  two  places  —  Turner  Road  and  the  police-sta- 
tion —  and  that  the  occupants  of  both  these  places 
should  be  informed  of  the  facts.  And  that  then 
all  three  should  go  to  bed. 


(IV) 

At  ten  minutes  past  eleven  Dick  moved  away  from 
the  fire  in  the  Men's  Club,  where  he  had  just  been 
warming  himself  after  his  vigil,  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down. 

He, had  no  idea  why  he  was  so  uncomfortable, 
and  he  determined  to  set  to  work  to  reassure  him- 
self. (The  clergyman,  he  noticed,  was  beginning 
to  doze  a  little  by  the  fire,  for  the  club  had  just  been 
officially  closed  and  the  rooms  were  empty. ) 

Of  course,  it  was  not  pleasant  to  have  to  tell  a 


448  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

young  man  that  his  father  and  brother  were  dead 
(Dick  himself  was  conscious  of  a  considerable 
shock),  but  surely  the  situation  was,  on  the  whole, 
enormously  improved.  This  morning  Frank  was  a 
pauper;  to-night  he  was  practically  a  millionaire, 
as  well  as  a  peer  of  the  realm.  This  morning  his 
friends  had  nothing  by  which  they  might  appeal  to 
him,  except  common  sense  and  affection,  and  Frank 
had  very  little  of  the  one,  and,  it  would  seem,  a  very 
curious  idea  of  the  other. 

Of  course,  all  that  affair  about  Jenny  was  a  bad 
business  (Dick  could  hardly  even  now  trust  himself 
to  think  of  her  too  much,  and  not  to  discuss  her 
at  all),  but  Frank  would  get  over  it. 

Then,  still  walking  up  and  down,  and  honestly 
reassured  by  sheer  reason,  he  began  to  think  of  what 
part  Jenny  would  play  in  the  future.  ...  It 
was  a  very  odd  situation,  a  very  odd  situation  in- 
deed. (The  deliberate  and  self -restrained  Dick 
used  an  even  stronger  expression.)  Here  was  a 
young  woman  who  had  jilted  the  son  and  married 
the  father,  obviously  from  ambitious  motives,  and 
now  found  herself  almost  immediately  in  the  posi- 
tion of  a  very  much  unestablished  kind  of  dowager, 
with  the  jilted  son  reigning  in  her  husband's  stead. 
And  what  on  earth  would  happen  next  ?  Diamonds 
had  been  trumps;  now  it  looked  as  if  hearts  were  to 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  449 

succeed  them;  and  what  a  very  remarkable  pattern 
was  that  of  these  hearts. 

But  to  come  back  to  Frank  — 

And  at  that  moment  he  heard  a  noise  at  the  door, 
and,  as  the  clergyman  started  up  from  his  doze, 
Dick  saw  the  towzled  and  becapped  head  of  the  un- 
employed man  and  his  hand  beckoning  violently, 
and  heard  his  hoarse  voice  adjuring  them  to  make 
haste.  The  gentleman  under  the  arch,  he  said,  was 
signaling. 

The  scene  was  complete  when  the  two  arrived, 
with  the  unemployed  man  encouraging  them  from 
behind,  half  a  minute  later  under  the  archway. 

Jack  had  faced  Frank  fairly  and  squarely  on  the 
further  pavement,  and  was  holding  him  in  talk. 

"  My  dear  chap,"  he  was  saying,  "  we've  been 
waiting  for  you  all  day.  Thank  the  Lord  you've 
come! " 

Frank  looked  a  piteous  sight,  thought  Dick,  who 
now  for  the  first  time  saw  the  costume  that  Mr.  Par- 
ham-Carter  had  described  with  such  minuteness. 
He  was  standing  almost  under  the  lamp,  and  there 
were  heavy  drooping  shadows  on  his  face ;  he  looked 
five  years  older  than  when  Dick  had  last  seen  him  — 
only  at  Easter.  But  his  voice  was  confident  and 
self-respecting  enough. 

"  My  dear  Jack,"  he  was  saying,  "  you  really 


450  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

mustn't  interrupt.  I've  only  just — "  Then  he 
broke  off  as  he  recognized  the  others. 

"  So  you've  given  me  away  after  all,"  he  said  with 
a  certain  sternness  to  the  clergyman. 

"  Indeed  I  haven't,"  cried  that  artless  young  man. 
^'They  came  quite  unexpectedly  this  morning." 

"  And  you've  told  them  that  they  could  catch  me 
here,"  said  Frank.  "  Well,  it  makes  no  difference. 
I'm  going  on  —  Hullo !  Dick !  " 

"  Look  here !  "  said  Dick.  "  It's  really  serious. 
You've  heard  about  — "  His  voice  broke. 

"  I've  heard  about  it,"  said  Frank.  "  But  that 
doesn't  make  any  difference  for  to-night." 

"  But  my  dear  man,"  cried  Jack,  seizing  him  by 
the  lapel  of  his  coat,  "  it's  simply  ridiculous.  We've 
come  down  here  on  purpose  —  you're  killing  your- 
self — " 

"  One  moment,"  said  Frank.  "  Tell  me  exactly 
what  you  want." 

Dick  pushed  to  the  front. 

"  Let  him  alone,  you  fellows.  .  .  .  This  is 
what  we  want,  Frank.  We  want  you  to  come 
straight  to  the  clergy-house  for  to-night.  To-mor- 
row you  and  I'll  go  and  see  the  lawyers  first  thing 
in  the  morning,  and  go  up  to  Merefield  by  the  after- 
noon train.  I'm  sorry,  but  you've  really  got  to  go 
through  with  it.  You're  the  head  of  the  family 
now.  They'll  be  all  waiting  for  you  there,  and 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  451 

they  can't  do  anything  without  you.  This  mustn't 
get  into  the  papers.  Fortunately,  not  a  soul  knows 
of  it  yet,  though  they  would  have  if  you'd  been 
half  an  hour  later.  Now,  come  along." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Frank.  "  I  agree  with 
nearly  all  that  you've  said.  I  quite  agree  with  you 
that" — he  paused  a  moment — "that  the  head  of 
the  family  should  be  at  Merefield  to-morrow  night. 
But  for  to-night  you  three  must  just  go  round  to 
the  clergy-house  and  wait.  I've  got  to  finish  my 
job  clean  out  —  and  — " 

"  What  job?  "  cried  two  voices  simultaneously. 

Frank  leaned  against  the  wall  and  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets. 

"  I  really  don't  propose  to  go  into  all  that  now. 
It'd  take  an  hour.  But  two  of  you  know  most  of  the 
story.  In  a  dozen  words  it's  this  —  I've  got  the 
girl  away,  and  now  I'm  going  to  tell  the  man,  and 
tell  him  a  few  other  things  at  the  same  time.  That's 
the  whole  thing.  Now  clear  off,  please.  (I'm  aw- 
fully obliged,  you  know,  and  all  that),  but  you  really 
must  let  me  finish  it  before  I  do  anything  else." 

There  was  a  silence. 

It  seemed  tolerably  reasonable,  put  like  that  — 
at  least,  it  seemed  consistent  with  what  appeared  to 
the  three  to  be  the  amazing  unreason  of  all  Frank's 
proceedings.  They  hesitated,  and  were  lost. 

"  Will  you  swear  not  to  clear  out  of  Hackney 


452  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Wick  before  we've  seen  you  again?"  demanded 
Jack  hoarsely. 

Frank  bowed  his  head. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

The  clergyman  and  Dick  were  consulting  in  low 
voices.  Jack  looked  at  them  with  a  wild  sort  of  ap- 
peal in  his  face.  He  was  completely  bewildered,  and 
hoped  for  help.  But  none  came. 

"  Will  you  swear  — "  he  began  again. 

Frank  put  his  hand  suddenly  on  his  friend's  shoul- 
der. 

"  Look  here,  old  man.  I'm  really  rather  done 
up.  I  think  you  might  let  me  go  without  any 
more  — " 

"All  right,  we  agree,"  said  Dick  suddenly. 
"And—" 

"  Very  good,"  said  Frank.  "  Then  there's  really 
no  more — " 

He  turned  as  if  to  go. 

"  Frank,  Frank  — "  cried  Jack. 

Frank  turned  and  glanced  at  him,  and  then  went 
on. 

"  Good-night,"  he  cried. 

And  so  they  let  him  go. 

They  watched  him,  in  silence,  cross  the  road  by 
the  "  Queen's  Arms  "  and  pass  up  the  left-hand 
pavement.  As  he  drew  near  each  lamp  his  shadow 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  453 

lay  behind  him,  shortened,  vanished  and  reappeared 
before  him.  After  the  third  lamp  they  lost  him, 
and  they  knew  he  would  a  moment  later  pass  into 
Turner  Road. 

So  they  let  him  go. 


(v) 

Mr.  Parham-Carter's  room  looked  very  warm 
and  home-like  after  the  comfortlessness  of  the  damp 
lamp-lit  streets.  It  was  as  has  already  been  related : 
the  Madonna,  the  prints,  the  low  book-cases,  the 
drawn  curtains,  the  rosy  walls,  the  dancing  firelight 
and  the  electric  lamp. 

It  was  even  reassuring  at  first  —  safe  and  pro- 
tected, and  the  three  sat  down  content.  A  tray  with 
some  cold  meat  and  cheese  rested  on  the  table  by 
the  fire,  and  cocoa  in  a  brown  jug  stood  warming 
in  the  fender.  They  had  had  irregular  kinds  of 
refreshments  in  the  Men's  Club  at  odd  intervals, 
and  were  exceedingly  hungry. 

They  began  to  talk  presently,  and  it  was  aston- 
ishing how  the  sight  and  touch  of  Frank  had 
cheered  them.  More  than  one  of  the  three  has  con- 
fessed to  me  since  that  a  large  part  of  the  anxiety 
was  caused  by  his  simple  absence  and  by  imaginative 
little  pictures  of  street  accidents.  It  would  have 


454  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

been  so  extremely  ironical  if  he  had  happened  to 
have  been  run  over  on  the  day  on  which  he  became 
Lord  Talgarth. 

They  laid  their  little  plans,  too,  for  the  next  day. 
Dick  had  thought  it  all  out.  He,  Jack  and  Frank 
were  to  call  at  the  lawyers'  office  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  and  leave  a  message,  as  the  office  would  be 
closed  of  course,  immediately  after  the  wanderer 
had  been  dressed  properly  in  ready-made  clothes. 
Then  they  would  catch  the  early  afternoon  train 
and  get  to  Merefield  that  night.  The  funeral  could 
not  possibly  take  place  for  several  days :  there  would 
have  to  be  an  inquest. 

Then  they  read  over  the  account  of  the  smash 
in  the  Star  newspaper  —  special  edition.  It  seemed 
to  have  been  nobody's  fault.  The  brake  had  re- 
fused to  act  going  down  a  steep  hill ;  they  had  run 
into  a  wall;  the  chauffeur  had  been  thro\vn  clean 
over  it;  the  two  passengers  had  been  pinned  under 
the  car.  Lord  Talgarth  was  dead  at  once;  Archie 
had  died  five  minutes  after  being  taken  out. 

So  they  all  talked  at  once  in  low  voices,  but  in 
the  obvious  excitement  of  relief.  It  was  an  ex- 
traordinary pleasure  to  them  —  now  that  they  looked 
at  it  in  the  sanity  conferred  by  food  and  warmth  — 
to  reflect  that  Frank  was  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  them  —  certainly  in  dreary  surroundings ;  but  it 
was  for  the  last  time.  To-morrow  would  see  him 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  455 

restored  to  ordinary  life,  his  delusions  and  vagaries 
plucked  from  him  by  irresistible  circumstance,  and 
the  future  in  his  hands. 


Midnight  still  found  them  talking  —  alert  and 
cheerful;  but  a  little  silence  fell  as  they  heard  the 
chiming  of  bells. 

"  Christmas  Day,  by  George !  "  said  the  clergy- 
man. "  Merry  Christmas !  " 

They  shook  hands,  smiling  shamefacedly,  as  is 
the  custom  of  Englishmen. 

"  And  to  think  of  old  Frank  — "  mused  Jack 
half  aloud.  "  I  told  you,  Guiseley,  about  his  com- 
ing to  me  in  the  autumn?  "  (He  had  been  think- 
ing a  great  deal  about  that  visit  lately,  and  about 
what  Frank  had  told  him  of  himself  —  the  idea  he 
had  of  Something  going  on  behind  the  scenes  in 
which  he  had  passively  to  take  his  part ;  his  remark 
on  how  pleasant  it  must  be  to  be  a  squire.  Well, 
the  play  had  come  to  an  end,  it  seemed ;  now  there 
followed  the  life  of  a  squire  indeed.  It  was  curious 
to  think  that  Frank  was,  actually  at  this  moment, 
Lord  Talgarth!) 

Dick  nodded  his  head,  smiling  to  himself  in  his 
beard.  Somehow  or  another  the  turn  things  had 
taken  had  submerged  in  him  for  the  present  the 
consciousness  of  the  tragedy  up  at  Merefield,  and 
his  own  private  griefs,  and  the  memory  of  Jenny. 


456  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

Jack  told  it  all  again  briefly.  He  piled  it  on 
about  the  Major  and  his  extreme  repulsiveness,  and 
the  draggled  appearance  of  Gertie,  and  Frank's  in- 
credible obstinacy. 

"  And  to  think  that  he's  brought  it  off,  and  got 
the  girl  home  to  her  people.  .  .  .  Well,  thank 
the  Lord  that's  over!  We  shan't  have  any  more 
of  that  sort  of  thing." 

Dick  got  up  presently  and  began  to  walk  about, 
eyeing  the  pictures  and  the  books. 

"Want  to  turn  in?"  asked  the  cleric. 

"  Well,  I  think,  as  we've  an  early  start  — " 

The  clergyman  jumped  up. 

"  You've  a  beastly  little  room,  I'm  afraid.  We're 
rather  full  up.  And  you,  Mr.  Kirkby !  " 

"  I'll  wait  till  you  come  back,"  he  said. 

The  two  went  out,  after  good-nights,  and  Jack 
was  left  staring  at  the  fire. 

He  felt  very  wide-awake,  and  listened  contentedly 
to  the  dying  noises  of  the  streets.  Somewhere  in 
that  hive  outside  was  Frank  —  old  Frank.  That 
was  very  good  to  think  of.  .  .  . 

During  these  last  months  Frank's  personality  had 
been  very  persistently  before  him.  It  was  not  that 
he  pretended  to  understand  him  in  the  very  least; 
but  he  understood  enough  now  to  feel  that  there 
was  something  very  admirable  in  it  all.  It  was 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  457 

mad  and  quixotic  and  absurd,  but  it  had  a  certain 
light  of  nobility.  Of  course,  it  would  never  do  if 
people  in  general  behaved  like  that ;  society  simply 
could  not  go  on  if  everyone  went  about  espousing 
the  cause  of  unhappy  and  badly-behaved  individ- 
uals, and  put  on  old  clothes  and  played  the  Ass.  But, 
for  all  that,  it  was  not  unpleasant  to  reflect  that  his 
own  friend  had  chosen  to  do  these  things  in  despite 
of  convention.  There  was  a  touch  of  fineness  in  it. 
And  it  was  all  over  now,  thank  God.  .  .  . 
What  times  they  would  have  up  in  the  north ! 

He  heard  a  gate  clash  somewhere  outside.  The 
sound  just  detached  itself  from  the  murmur  of  the 
night.  Then  a  late  train  ran  grinding  over  the  em- 
banked railway  behind  the  house,  and  drew  up  with 
the  screaming  of  brakes  at  Victoria  Park  Station, 
and  distracted  him  again. 

"Are  you  ready,  Mr.  Kirkby?"  said  the  clergy- 
man, coming  in. 

Jack  stood  up,  stretching  himself.  In  the  middle 
of  the  stretch  he  stopped. 

"What's  that  noise?"  he  asked. 

They  stood  listening. 

Then  again  came  the  sharp,  prolonged  tingle  of 
an  electric  bell,  followed  by  a  battering  at  a  door 
downstairs. 

Jack,  looking  in  the  other's  face,  saw  him  go  ever 

so  slightly  pale  beneath  his  eyes. 
30 


458  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

"  There's  somebody  at  the  door,"  said  Mr.  Par- 
ham-Carter.  "  I'll  just  go  down  and  see." 

And,  as  Jack  stood  there,  motionless  and  breath- 
less, he  could  hear  no  sound  but  the  thick  hammer- 
ing of  his  own  heart  at  the  base  of  his  throat. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

(i) 

A  T  half-past  eleven  o'clock  Mrs.  Partington 
came  upstairs  to  the  room  where  the  two  men 
were  still  drinking,  to  make  one  more  suggestion 
that  it  \vas  time  to  go  to  bed. 

It  was  a  dreary  little  room,  this  front  bedroom 
on  the  first  floor,  where  Frank  and  the  Major  had 
slept  last  night  in  one  large  double  bed.  The  bed 
was  pushed  now  close  against  the  wall,  the  clothes 
still  tumbled  and  unmade,  with  various  articles  lying 
upon  it,  as  on  a  table.  A  chair  without  a  back 
stood  between  it  and  the  window. 

The  table  where  the  two  men  still  sat  was  pulled 
close  to  the  fire  that  had  been  lighted  partly  in 
honor  of  Mr.  Partington  and  partly  in  honor  of 
Christmas,  and  was  covered  with  a  debris  of  plates 
and  glasses  and  tobacco  and  bottles.  There  was  a 
jam-jar  filled  with  holly  obtained  from  the  butcher's 
shop,  in  the  middle  of  the  table.  There  was  very 
little  furniture  in  the  room;  there  was  a  yellow- 
painted  chest  of  drawers  opposite  the  door,  and 
this,  too,  held  a  little  regiment  of  bottles;  there  was 
459 


460  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

a  large  oleograph  of  Queen  Victoria  hanging  above 
the  bed,  and  a  text  —  for  some  inscrutable  reason 
—  was  permitted  to  hang  above  the  fireplace,  pro- 
claiming that  "  The  Lord  is  merciful  and  long-suf- 
fering," in  Gothic  letters,  peeping  modestly  out  of 
a  wealth  of  painted  apple-blossoms,  with  a  water- 
wheel  in  the  middle  distance  and  a  stile.  On  the 
further  side  of  the  fireplace  was  a  washhand-stand, 
with  a  tin  pail  below  it,  and  the  Major's  bowler  hat 
reposing  in  the  basin.  There  was  a  piece  of  carpet 
underneath  the  table,  and  a  woolly  sort  of  mat, 
trodden  through  in  two  or  three  places,  beside  the 
bed. 

Mrs.  Partington  coughed  as  she  came  in,  so  tre- 
mendous was  the  reek  of  tobacco  smoke,  burning 
paraffin  and  spirits. 

"  Bless  the  men ! "  she  said,  and  choked  once 
more. 

She  was  feeling  comparatively  light-hearted;  it 
was  a  considerable  relief  to  her  that  Frank  actually 
had  not  come  back,  though  she  never  had  for  one 
instant  expected  him  to  do  so.  But  she  didn't  want 
any  more  disturbances  or  quarrels,  and,  as  she 
looked  at  the  Major,  who  turned  in  his  chair  as  she 
came  in,  she  felt  even  more  relieved.  His  appear- 
ance was  not  reassuring. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  461 

He  had  been  drinking  pretty  steadily  all  day  to 
drown  his  grief,  and  had  ended  up  by  a  very  busi- 
ness-like supper  with  his  landlord.  There  were 
four  empty  beer  bottles  and  one  empty  whisky  bot- 
tle distributed  on  the  table  or  floor,  and  another 
half-empty  whisky  bottle  stood  between  the  two  men 
on  the  table.  And  as  she  looked  at  the  Major  (she 
was  completely  experienced  in  alcoholic  symptoms), 
she  understood  exactly  what  stage  he  had  reached. 

Now  the  Major  was  by  no  means  a  drunkard  — 
let  that  be  understood.  He  drank  whenever  he 
could,  but  a  tramp  cannot  drink  to  very  grave  ex- 
cess. He  is  perpetually  walking  and  he  is  perpetu- 
ally poor.  But  this  was  a  special  occasion;  it  was 
Christmas;  he  was  home  in  London;  his  landlord 
had  returned,  and  he  had  lost  Gertie. 

He  had  reached,  then,  the  dangerous  stage,  when 
the  alcohol,  after  having  excited  and  warmed  and 
confused  the  brain,  recoils  from  it  to  some  extent, 
leaving  it  clear  and  resolute  and  entirely  reckless, 
and  entirely  conscious  of  any  idea  that  happens  to 
be  dominant  (at  least,  that  is  the  effect  on  some 
temperaments).  The  maudlin  stage  had  passed 
long  ago,  at  the  beginning  of  supper,  when  the  Ma- 
jor had  leaned  his  head  on  his  plate  and  wept  over 
the  ingratitude  of  man  and  the  peculiar  poignancy 


462  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

of  "  old  Frankie's  "  individual  exhibition  of  it.  A 
noisy  stage  had  succeeded  to  this,  and  now  there 
was  deadly  quiet. 

He  was  rather  white  in  the  face;  his  eyes  were 
set,  but  very  bright,  and  he  was  smoking  hard  and 
fast. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Mrs.  Partington  cheerfully, 
"  time  for  bed." 

Her  husband  winked  at  her  gravely,  which  was 
his  nearest  approach  to  hilarity.  He  was  a  quiet 
man  at  all  times. 

The  Major  said  nothing. 

"  There !  there's  'Erb  awake  again,"  said  the 
mother,  as  a  wail  rose  up  the  staircase.  "  I'll  be  up 
again  presently."  And  she  vanished  once  more. 

Two  of  the  children  were  awake  after  all. 

Jimmie  lay,  black-eyed  and  alert,  beside  his 
brother,  and  looked  at  his  mother  reflectively  as  she 
came  in.  He  was  still  thinking  about  the  sixpence 
that  might  conceivably  have  been  his.  'Erb's  lam- 
entation stopped  as  she  came  in,  and  she  went  to 
the  table  first  to  turn  down  the  smoking  lamp. 

She  was  quite  a  kindly  mother,  a  great  deal  more 
tender  than  she  seemed,  and  'Erb  knew  it  well 
enough.  But  he  respected  her  sufficiently  to  stop 
crying  when  she  came  in. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  463 

"  Now  then,"  she  said  with  motherly  sternness. 
"  I  can't  'ave  — " 

Then  she  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  heard  steps 
on  the  pavement  outside  as  she  came  into  the  room, 
and  now  she  heard  the  handle  of  the  street  door 
turned  and  someone  come  into  the  passage.  She 
stood  wondering,  and  in  that  pause  she  missed  her 
chance,  for  the  steps  came  straight  past  the  door 
and  began  to  go  upstairs.  It  might,  of  course,  con- 
ceivably be  one  of  the  lodgers  on  the  top-floor,  and 
yet  she  knew  it  was  not.  She  whisked  to  the  door 
a  moment  later,  but  it  was  too  late,  and  she  was 
only  just  in  time  to  see  the  figure  she  knew  turn  the 
corner  of  the  four  stairs  that  led  to  the  first-floor 
landing. 

"Is  that  Frankie?"  asked  Jimmie,  suddenly  sit- 
ting up  in  bed.  "  Oh !  mother,  let  me  — " 

"  You  be  quiet! "  snapped  the  woman,  and  stood 
listening,  with  parted  lips. 


(n) 

From  that  point  Mrs.  Partington  seems^to  have 
been  able  to  follow  very  closely  what  must  have 
taken  place  upstairs. 

It  was  a  very  quiet  night,  here  in  Turner  Road : 
the  roysterers  were  in  the  better-lighted  streets,  and 


464  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

the  sober  folk  were  at  home.  And  there  was  not  a 
footstep  on  the  pavements  outside  to  confuse  the 
little  drama  of  sound  that  came  down  to  her  through 
the  ill-fitting  boards  overhead.  She  could  not  ex- 
plain afterwards  why  she  did  not  interfere.  I  im- 
agine that  she  hoped  against  hope  that  she  was  mis- 
interpreting what  she  heard,  and  also  that  a  kind  of 
terror  seized  her  which  she  found  it  really  impossi- 
ble to  shake  off. 

First,  there  was  the  opening  and  closing  of  the 
door ;  two  or  three  footsteps,  and  then  dead  silence. 

Then  she  heard  talking  begin,  first  one  voice,  then 
a  crescendo,  as  if  two  or  three  clamored  together; 
then  one  voice  again.  (It  was  impossible,  so  far, 
to  distinguish  which  was  which.) 

This  went  on  for  a  minute  or  two;  occasionally 
there  was  a  crescendo,  and  once  or  twice  some  voice 
rose  almost  into  a  shout. 

Then,  without  warning,  there  was  a  shuffling  of 
feet,  and  a  crash,  as  of  an  overturned  chair;  and, 
instant  upon  the  noise,  'Erb  set  up  a  prolonged  wail. 

"  You  be  quiet !  "  snapped  the  woman  in  a  sharp 
whisper. 

The  noises  went  on:  now  the  stamp  of  a  foot; 
now  the  scraping  of  something  overhead  and  a  voice 
or  two  in  sharp  deep  exclamation,  and  then  com- 
plete silence  once  more.  'Erb  was  sobbing  now, 
as  noiselessly  as  he  could,  terrified  at  his  mother's 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  465 

face,  and  Jimmie  was  up,  standing  on  the  floor  in 
his  flannel  shirt,  listening  like  his  mother.  Maggie 
still  slept  deeply  on  the  further  side  of  the  bed. 

The  woman  went  on  tip-toe  a  step  nearer  the 
door,  opened  it,  and  peeped  out  irresolutely.  But 
the  uncarpeted  stairs  stretched  up  into  the  dark- 
ness, unlit  except  for  the  glimmer  that  came  from 
the  room  at  whose  door  she  was  standing.  ... 

There  was  a  voice  now,  rising  and  falling  steadily, 
and  she  heard  it  broken  in  upon  now  and  again  by 
something  that  resembled  a  chuckle.  Somehow  or 
another  this  sickened  her  more  than  all  else ;  it  was 
like  her  husband's  voice.  She  recoiled  into  the 
room,  and,  as  she  did  so,  there  came  the  sound  of 
blows  and  the  stamping  of  feet,  and  she  knew,  in  a 
way  that  she  could  not  explain,  that  there  was  no 
fight  going  on.  It  was  some  kind  of  punishment, 
not  a  conflict.  .  .  . 

She  would  have  given  the  world  to  move,  to  run 
to  the  street  door  and  scream  for  help;  but  her 
knees  shook  under  her  and  her  heart  seemed  to  be 
hammering  itself  to  bits.  Jimmie  had  hold  of  her 
now,  clinging  round  her,  shaking  with  terror  and 
murmuring  something  she  could  not  understand. 
Her  whole  attention  was  upstairs.  She  was  won- 
dering how  long  it  would  go  on. 

It  must  be  past  midnight  now,  she  thought;  the 
streets  seemed  still  as  death.  But  overhead  there 


466  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

was  still  movement  and  the  sound  of  blows,  and 
then  abruptly  the  end  came. 

There  was  one  more  crescendo  of  noise  —  two 
voices  raised  in  dispute,  one  almost  shrill,  in  anger 
or  expostulation;  then  one  more  sudden  and  heavy 
noise  as  of  a  blow  or  a  fall,  and  dead  silence. 


(m) 

The  next  thing  that  Mrs.  Partington  remembered 
afterwards  was  that  she  found  herself  standing  on 
the  landing  upstairs,  listening,  yet  afraid  to  move. 

All  was  very  nearly  silent  within:  there  was  just 
low  talking,  and  the  sound  of  something  being 
moved.  It  was  her  husband's  voice  that  she  heard. 

Beyond  her  the  stairs  ran  up  to  the  next  story, 
and  she  became  aware  presently  that  someone  else 
was  watching,  too.  An  untidy  head  of  a  woman 
leaned  over  the  banisters,  and  candle-light  from 
somewhere  beyond  lit  up  her  face.  She  was  grin- 
ning. 

Then  the  sharp  whisper  came  down  the  stairs  de- 
manding what  was  up. 

Mrs.  Partington  jerked  her  thumb  towards  the 
closed  door  and  nodded  reassuringly.  She  was 
aware  that  she  must  be  natural  at  all  costs.  The 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  467 

woman  still  hung  over  the  banisters  a  minute  longer 
and  then  was  gone. 

Jimmie  was  with  her  too,  now,  still  just  in  his 
shirt,  perfectly  quiet,  with  a  face  as  white  as  paper. 
His  big  black  eyes  dwelt  on  his  mother's  face. 

Then  suddenly  she  could  bear  the  suspense  no 
more.  She  stole  up  to  the  door,  still  on  tip-toe, 
still  listening,  and  laid  her  fingers  on  the  handle. 
There  were  more  gentle  movements  within  now,  the 
noise  of  water  and  a  basin  (she  heard  the  china 
clink  distinctly),  but  no  more  words. 

She  turned  the  handle  resolutely  and  looked  in. 

The  Major  was  leaning  in  the  corner  by  the  win- 
dow, with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  staring  with  a 
dull,  white,  defiant  kind  of  face  at  the  bed.  The 
lamp  on  the  mantelpiece  lighted  him  up  clearly.  On 
his  knees  by  the  bedside  was  her  husband,  with  his 
back  to  her,  supporting  a  basin  on  the  bed  and  some- 
thing dark  that  hung  over  it.  Then  she  saw  Frank. 
It  was  he  who  was  lying  on  the  bed  almost  upon 
his  face;  one  boot  dangled  down  on  this  side,  and 
it  was  his  head  that  her  husband  was  supporting. 
She  stared  at  it  a  moment  in  terror.  .  .  .  Then 
her  eyes  wandered  to  the  floor,  where,  among  the 
pieces  of  broken  glass,  a  pool  of  dark  liquid  spread 
slowly  over  the  boards.  Twigs  and  detached  leaves 


468  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

of  holly  lay  in  the  midst  of  it.  And  at  that  sight 
her  instinct  reasserted  herself. 

She  stepped  forward  and  took  her  husband  by 
the  shoulder.  He  turned  a  face  that  twitched  a  lit- 
tle towards  her.  She  pushed  him  aside,  took  the 
basin  from  him,  and  the  young  man's  head.  .  .  . 

"  Clear  out  of  this,"  she  whispered  sharply. 
"  Quick,  mind !  You  and  the  Major !  .  .  . 
Jimmie! "  The  boy  was  by  her  in  an  instant,  shak- 
ing all  over,  but  perfectly  self -controlled. 

"Jimmie,  put  your  things  on  and  be  off  to  the 
clergy-house.  Ring  'em  up,  and  ask  for  Mr.  Car- 
ter. Bring  him  round  with  you." 

Frank's  head  slipped  a  little  in  her  hands,  and 
she  half  rose  to  steady  it.  When  she  had  finished 
and  looked  round  again  for  her  husband,  the  room 
was  empty.  From  below  up  the  stairs  came  a  sud- 
den draught,  and  the  flame  leaped  in  the  lamp-chim- 
ney. And  then,  once  more  unrestrained,  rose  up 
the  wailing  of  'Erb. 


(IV) 

A  little  after  dawn  on  that  Christmas  morning 
Mr.  Parham-Carter  sat  solitary  in  the  kitchen.  The 
children  had  been  packed  off  to  a  neighbor's  house 
before,  and  he  himself  had  been  to  and  fro  all  night 
and  was  tired  out  —  to  the  priest's  house  at  Homer- 


XOXE  OTHER  GODS  469 

ton,  to  the  doctor's,  and  to  the  parish  nurse.  All 
the  proper  things  had  been  done.  Frank  had  been 
anointed  by  the  priest,  bandaged  by  the  doctor,  and 
settled  in  by  the  nurse  into  the  middle  of  the  big 
double  bed.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  conscious- 
ness. They  were  upstairs  now  —  Jack,  Dick  and 
the  nurse ;  the  priest  and  the  doctor  had  promised  to 
look  in  before  nine  —  there  was  nothing  more  that 
they  could  do  for  the  present,  they  said  —  and  Mrs. 
Partington  was  out  at  this  moment  to  fetch  some- 
thing from  the  dispensary. 

He  had  heard  her  story  during  one  of  the  inter- 
vals in  the  course  of  the  night,  arid  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  a  tolerably  accurate  theory  of  the 
whole  affair,  —  if,  that  is  to  say,  her  interpretation 
of  the  noises  she  had  heard  was  at  all  correct. 

The  Major  must  have  made  an  unexpected  at- 
tack, probably  by  a  kick  that  had  temporarily  dis- 
abled Frank,  and  must  then,  with  Mr.  Partington's 
judicial  though  amused  approval,  have  proceeded 
to  inflict  chastisement  upon  Frank  as  he  lay  on  the 
floor.  This  must  have  gone  on  for  a  considerable 
time ;  Frank  seemed  to  have  been  heavily  kicked  all 
over  his  body.  And  the  thing  must  have  ended 
with  a  sudden  uncontrolled  attack  on  the  part  of  the 
Major,  not  only  with  his  boots,  but  with  at  least 
one  of  the  heavy  bottles.  The  young  man's  head 
was  cut  deeply,  as  if  by  glass,  and  it  was  probab!'; 


470  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

three  or  four  kicks  on  the  head,  before  Mr.  Parting- 
ton  could  interfere,  that  had  concluded  the  punish- 
ment. The  doctor's  evidence  entirely  corroborated 
this  interpretation  of  events.  It  was,  of  course,  im- 
possible to  know  whether  Frank  had  had  the  time 
or  the  will  to  make  any  resistance.  The  police  had 
been  communicated  with,  but  there  was  no  news  yet 
of  the  two  men  involved. 

It  was  one  of  those  bleak,  uncomfortable  dawns 
that  have  no  beauty  either  of  warmth  or  serenity  — 
at  least  it  seemed  so  here  in  Turner  Road.  Above 
the  torn  and  dingy  strip  of  lace  that  shrouded  the 
lower  part  of  the  window  towered  the  black  fronts 
of  the  high  houses  against  the  steely  western  sky. 
It  was  extraordinarily  quiet.  Now  and  then  a  foot- 
step echoed  and  died  suddenly  as  some  passer-by 
crossed  the  end  of  the  street;  but  there  was  no  mur- 
mur of  voices  yet,  or  groups  at  the  doors,  as,  no 
doubt,  there  would  be  when  the  news  became  known. 

The  room,  too,  was  cheerless;  the  fire  was  long 
ago  gone. out;  the  children's  bed  was  still  tumbled 
and  disordered,  and  the  paraffin  lamp  had  smoked 
itself  out  half  an  hour  ago.  Overhead  the  clergy- 
man could  hear  now  and  again  a  very  gentle  foot- 
step, and  that  was  all. 

He  was  worn  out  with  excitement  and  a  kind  of 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  471 

terror;  and  events  took  for  him  the  same  kind  of 
clear,  hard  outline  as  did  the  physical  objects  them- 
selves in  this  cold  light  of  dawn.  He  had  passed 
through  a  dozen  moods :  furious  anger  at  the  sense- 
less crime,  at  the  hopeless,  miserable  waste  of  a  life, 
an  overwhelming  compassion  and  a  wholly  unrea- 
sonable self-reproach  for  not  having  foreseen  dan- 
ger more  clearly  the  night  before.  There  were 
other  thoughts  that  had  come  to  him  too  —  doubts 
as  to  whether  the  internal  significance  of  all  these 
things  were  in  the  least  analogous  to  the  external 
happenings;  whether,  perhaps,  after  all,  the  whole 
affair  were  not  on  the  inner  side  a  complete  and 
perfect  event  —  in  fact,  a  startling  success  of  a 
nature  which  he  could  not  understand.  Certainly, 
exteriorly,  a  more  lamentable  failure  and  waste 
could  not  be  conceived;  there  had  been  sacrificed 
such  an  array  of  advantages  —  birth,  money,  edu- 
cation, gifts,  position  —  and  for  such  an  exceed- 
ingly small  and  doubtful  good,  that  no  additional 
data,  it  would  appear,  could  possibly  explain  the 
situation.  Yet  was  it  possible  that  such  data  did 
exist  somewhere,  and  that  another  golden  and  per- 
fect deed  had  been  done  —  that  there  was  no  waste, 
no  failure,  after  all? 

But  at  present  these  thoughts  only  came  to  him 
in  glimpses ;  he  was  exhausted  now  of  emotion  and 


472  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

speculation.  He  regarded  the  pitiless  facts  with  a 
sunken,  unenergetic  attention,  and  wondered  when 
he  would  be  called  again  upstairs. 

There  came  a  footstep  outside;  it  hesitated,  then 
the  street  door  was  pushed  open  and  the  step  came 
in,  up  to  the  room  door,  and  a  small  face,  pinched 
with  cold,  its  eyes  all  burning,  looked  at  him. 

"  Come  in,  Jimmie,"  he  whispered. 

And  so  the  two  sat,  huddled  one  against  the  other, 
and  the  man  felt  again  and  again  a  shudder,  though 
not  of  cold,  shake  the  little  body  at  his  side. 


(v) 

Ten  minutes  later  a  step  came  down  the  stairs,  a 
little  hurriedly,  though  on  tip-toe ;  and  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton,  her  own  thin  face  lined  with  sleeplessness  and 
emotion,  and  her  lips  set,  nodded  at  him  emphatic- 
ally. He  understood,  and  went  quickly  past  her, 
followed  closely  by  the  child,  and  up  the  narrow 
stairs.  ...  He  heard  the  street-door  close  be- 
hind him  as  the  woman  left  the  house. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  he  came  into  the  room  as  if 
he  had  stepped  clean  out  of  one  world  into  another. 
And  the  sense  of  it  was  so  sudden  and  abrupt  that 
he  stood  for  an  instant  on  the  threshold  amazed  at 
the  transition. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  473 

First,  it  was  the  absolute  stillness  and  motionless- 
ness  of  the  room  that  impressed  him,  so  far  as  any- 
one element  predominated.  There  were  persons  in 
the  room,  but  they  were  as  statues. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  bed,  decent  now  and 
arranged  and  standing  out  across  the  room,  kneeled 
the  two  men,  Jack  Kirkby  and  Dick  Guiseley,  but 
they  neither  lifted  their  eyes  nor  showed  the  faintest 
consciousness  of  his  presence  as  he  entered.  Their 
faces  were  in  shadow:  behind  them  was  the  cold 
patch  of  the  window,  and  a  candle  within  half  an 
inch  of  extinction  stood  also  behind  them  on  a  table 
in  the  corner,  with  one  or  two  covered  vessels  and 
instruments. 

The  nurse  kneeled  on  this  side,  one  arm  beneath 
the  pillow  and  the  other  on  the  counterpane. 

And  then  there  was  Frank. 

He  lay  perfectly  still  upon  his  back,  his  hands 
clasped  before  him  (and  even  these  were  bandaged). 
His  head  lay  high  on  three  or  four  pillows,  and  he 
wore  what  looked  like  a  sort  of  cap,  wholly  hiding 
his  hair  and  ears.  His  profile  alone  showed  clear- 
cut  and  distinct  against  the  gloom  in  the  corner  be- 
hind. His  face  was  entirely  tranquil,  as  pale  as 
ivory;  his  lips  were  closed.  His  eyes  alone  were 
alive. 

Presently  those  turned  a  little,  and  the  man  stand- 
Si 


474  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

ing  at  the  door,  understanding  the  look,  came  for- 
ward and  kneeled  too  by  the  bed. 

Then,  little  by  little,  he  began,  in  that  living  still- 
ness, to  understand  rather  better  what  it  was  that  he 
was  witnessing.  ...  It  was  not  that  there  was 
anything  physical  in  the  room,  beyond  the  things 
of  which  his  senses  told  him;  there  was  but  the 
dingy  furniture,  the  white  bed,  august  now  with  a 
strange  dignity  as  of  a  white  altar,  and  the  four  per- 
sons beside  himself  —  five  now,  for  Jimmie  was 
beside  him.  But  that  the  physical  was  not  the 
plane  in  which  these  five  persons  were  now  chiefly 
conscious  was  the  most  evident  thing  of  all. 
There  was  about  them,  not  a  Presence,  not  an  air, 
not  a  sweetness  or  a  sound,  and  yet  it  is  by  such 
negatives  only  that  the  thing  can  be  expressed. 

And  so  they  kneeled  and  waited. 

"  Why,  Jack  — " 

It  shook  the  waiting  air  like  the  sound  of  a  bell, 
yet  it  was  only  whispered.  The  man  nearest  him 
on  the  other  side  shook  with  a  single  spasmodic 
movement  and  laid  his  fingers  gently  on  the  ban- 
daged hands.  And  then  for  a  long  while  there  was 
no  further  movement  or  sound. 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  475 

"  Rosary !  "  said  Frank  suddenly,  still  in  a  whis- 
per. .  .  .  "Beads.  .  .  ." 

Jack  moved  swiftly  on  his  knees,  took  from  the 
table  a  string  of  beads  from  where  they  had  been 
laid  the  night  before,  and  put  them  into  the  still 
fingers.  Then  he  laid  his  own  hands  over  them 
again. 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause. 

Outside  in  the  street  a  footstep  came  up  from  the 
direction  of  Mortimer  Road,  waxed  loud  and  clear 
on  the  pavement,  and  died  again  down  towards  the 
street  leading  to  the  marshes.  And,  but  for  this, 
there  was  no  further  sound  for  a  while.  Then  a 
cock  crew,  thin  and  shrill,  somewhere  far  away;  a 
dray  rumbled  past  the  end  of  the  street  and  was 
silent. 

But  the  silence  in  the  room  was  of  a  different 
quality;  or,  rather,  the  world  seemed  silent  because 
this  room  was  so,  and  not  the  other  way.  It  was 
here  that  the  center  lay,  where  a  battered  man  was 
dying,  and  from  this  center  radiated  out  the  Great 
Peace. 

It  was  no  waste  then,  after  all!  —  this  life  of 
strange  unreason  ending  in  this  very  climax  of  use- 
lessness,  exactly  when  ordinary  usefulness  was 
about  to  begin.  Could  that  be  waste  that  ended  so? 


476  NONE  OTHER  GODS 

'*  Priest,"  whispered  the  voice  from  the  bed. 

Then  Dick  leaned  forward. 

"  He  has  been,"  he  said  distinctly  and  slowly. 
"  He  was  here  at  two  o'clock.  He  did  —  what  he 
came  for.  And  he's  coming  again  directly." 

The  eyes  closed  in  sign  of  assent  and  opened 
again. 

He  seemed  to  be  looking,  as  in  a  kind  of  medi- 
tation, at  nothing  in  particular.  It  was  as  a  man 
who  waits  at  his  ease  for  some  pleasant  little  event 
that  will  unroll  by  and  by.  He  was  in  no  ecstasy, 
and,  it  seemed,  in  no  pain  and  in  no  fierce  expecta- 
tion ;  he  was  simply  at  his  ease  and  waiting.  He 
was  content,  whatever  those  others  might  be. 

For  a  moment  it  crossed  the  young  clergyman's 
rnind  that  he  ought  to  pray  aloud,  but  the  thing  was 
dismissed  instantly.  It  seemed  to  him  impertinent 
nonsense.  That  was  not  what  was  required.  It 
was-  his  business  to  watch,  not  to  act. 

So,  little  by  little,  he  ceased  to  think  actively,  he 
ceased  to  consider  this  and  that.  At  first  he  had 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  the  doctor 
and  the  priest  arrived.  (The  woman  had  gone  to 
fetch  them. )  He  had  wished  that  they  would  make 
haste.  .  .  .  He  had  wondered  what  the  others 
felt,  and  how  he  would  describe  it  all  to  his  Vicar. 
Now,  little  by  little,  all  this  ceased,  and  the  peace 
grew  within  and  without,  till  the  balance  of  pres- 


NONE  OTHER  GODS  477 

sure  was  equalized  and  his  attention  floated  at  the 
perfect  poise. 

Again  there  was  no  symbol  or  analogy  that  pre- 
sented itself.  It  was  not  even  by  negation  that  he 
thought.  There  was  just  one  positive  element  that 
included  all :  time  seemed  to  mean  nothing,  the  ticks 
of  the  clock  with  the  painted  face  were  scarcely  con- 
secutive; it  was  all  one,  and  distance  was  nothing, 
nor  nearness  —  not  even  the  nearness  of  the  dying 
face  against  the  pillows. 

It  was  so,  then,  that  something  of  that  state  to 
which  Frank  had  passed  communicated  itself  to  at 
least  one  of  those  who  saw  him  die. 

A  little  past  the  half  hour  Frank  spoke  again. 

"  My  love  to  Whitty,"  he  said.  ..."  Diary. 
.  .  .  Tell  him.  .  .  ." 

The  end  came  a  few  minutes  before  nine  o'clock, 
and  it  seems  to  have  come  as  naturally  as  life  itself. 
There  was  no  drama,  no  dying  speech,  not  one 
word. 

Those  who  were  there  saw  him  move  ever  so 
slightly  in  bed,  and  his  head  lifted  a  little.  Then 
his  head  sank  once  more  and  the  Failure  was  com- 
plete. 

THE  END 


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